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THE    MODERN    LIBRARY 

OF  THE  world's  BEST  BOOKS 
BERTHA  GARLAN 


THE  MODERN  LIBRARY 

OSCAR  WILDB 

GUSTAVE  FLAUBERT 

Dorian  Gray 

Madame  Bovary 
JAMES  STEPHENS 

Poems 

STRINDBKRQ 

Mary,  Mary 

Married 

ANTON  CHEKHOV 

Miss  Julie  and  other  plaj* 

Rothschild's  Fiddle,  Btc. 

KIPLING 

ARTHUR  SCHNITZLER 

Soldiers  Three 

Anatol  and  other  plays 

STEVENSON 

Bertha  Garlan 

Treasure  Island 

SUDERMANN 

HENRIK  IBSEN 

Dame  Care 

A  Dolls  House,  Btc. 

LORD  DUNSANY 

Hedda  Gabler,  Etc. 

A  Dreamer's  Tales 

ANATOLE  FRANCH 

The  Book  of  Wonder 

The  Red  Lily 

G.  K.  CHESTERTON 

The  Crime  ot  SylTe»tre 

The    Man    Who     Wa» 

Bonnard 

Thursday 

DE  MAUPASSANT 

H.  G.  WELLS 

Mademoiselle  Fill,  Btc. 

The  War  in  the  Air 

DOSTOYEVSKY 

Ann  Veronica 

Poor  People 

HABCKEL.  WBISMANN.Btc 

MAETERLINCK 

Evolution    In   Modem 

A  Miracle  of  St  Antomy, 

Thought 

Etc. 

FRANCIS  THOMPSON 

SCHOPENHAUER 

Complete  Poems 

Studies  in  Pessimism 

RODIN 

SAMUKT.  BUTLER 

Art  of  Rodin 

The  Way  of  All  Flesh 

AUBREY  BEARDSLBY 

GEORGE  MEREDITH 

Art  of  Aubrey  Beardsley 

Diana  of  the  Crossways 

BALZAC 

G.  B.  SHAW 

Short  Stories 

An  Unsocial  Socialist 

EDWARD  CARPENTER 

GEO.  MOORE 

Love's  Coming  of  Ajre 

Confessions  of  a  YouBg 

LEONID  ANDREYEV 

Man 

The  Seven  that  Were 

THOMAS  HARDY 

Hanged 

Mayor  of  Casterbrldfe 

MAXIM  GORKY 

THOS.  SELTZER 

Creatures  that  Once  Were 

Befit  Russian  Stories 

Men 

NIETZSCHE 

MAX  BEERBOHM 

Bpyond  Good  and  Bril 

Zulelka  Dobson 

Thus  Spake  Zarathustra 

MAX  STIRNER 

TURGENEV 

The  Ego  and  His  Own 

Fathers  and  Sons 

GEORGE  GISSING 

SWINBURNE 

Private  Papers  of  Henry 

Poems 

Ryecroft 

WM.  DEAN  HOWBLLS 

VOLTAIRE 

A  Hazard  of  NeW  Fortunes 

Candide 

W.  S.  GILBERT 

W.  B.  YEATS 

The  Mikado  and  others 

Irish  Fairy  and  Folk  Tale* 

Other  Titles 

In   Preparation 

Maay  Tolumes  contain  iotrodactions  by  well-known  nojern  Antliors 

written  (peciallj  (or  tbe  Modem  Library. 

B  ERTH A      G ARLAN 


By  ARTHUR  SCHNITZLER 


BONI  AND  LIVERIGHT.  INC. 


PUBLISHERS 


NEW   YORK 


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Library 

BERTHA  GARLAN-?^-^^r 

I         ^My/=r^i 

She  was  walking  slowly  down  the  hill;  not  by 
the  broad  high  road  which  wound  its  way  towards 
the  town,  but  by  the  narrow  footpath  between 
the  trellises  of  the  vines.  Her  little  boy  was  with 
her,  hanging  on  to  her  hand  and  walking  all  the  time 
a  pace  in  front  of  her,  because  there  was  not  room 
on  the  footpath  for  them  to  walk  side  by  side. 

The  afternoon  was  well  advanced,  but  the  sun 
still  poured  down  upon  her  with  sufficient  power 
to  cause  her  to  pull  her  dark  straw  hat  a  little 
further  down  over  her  forehead  and  to  keep  her 
eyes  lowered.  The  slopes,  at  the  foot  of  which  the 
little  town  lay  nestling,  glimmered  as  though  seen 
through  a  golden  mist;  the  roofs  of  the  houses  be- 
low glistened,  and  the  river,  emerging  yonder 
amongst  the  meadows  outside  the  town,  stretched, 
shimmering,  into  the  distance.  Not  a  quiver  stirred 
the  air,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  cool  of  the  evening 
was  yet  far  remote. 

Bertha  stooped  for  a  moment  and  glanced  about 
her.  Save  for  her  boy,  she  was  all  alone  on  the  hill- 
side, and  around  her  brooded  a  curious  stillness. 
At  the  cemetery,  too,  on  the  hilltop,  she  had  not 

I 

712793 


2  BERTHA  GARLAN 

met  anybody  that  day,  not  even  the  old  woman  who 
usually  watered  the  flowers  and  kept  the  graves  tidy, 
and  with  whom  Bertha  used  often  to  have  a  chat 
Bertha  felt  that  somehow  a  considerable  time  had 
elapsed  since  she  had  started  on  her  walk,  and  that 
it  was  long  since  she  had  spoken  to  anyone. 

The  church  clock  struck — six.  So,  then,  scarcely 
an  hour  had  passed  since  she  had  left  the  house,  and 
an  even  shorter  time  since  she  had  stopped  in  the 
street  to  chat  with  the  beautiful  Frau  Rupius.  Yet 
even  the  few  minutes  which  had  slipped  away  sine* 
she  had  stood  by  her  husband's  grave  now  seemed 
to  be  long  past. 

"Mamma!" 

Suddenly  she  heard  her  boy  call.  He  had  slipped 
his  hand  out  of  hers  and  had  run  on  ahead. 

"I  can  walk  quicker  than  you,  mamma !" 

"Wait,  though !  Wait,  Fritz !"  exclaimed  Bertha. 
"You're  not  going  to  leave  your  mother  alone,  are 
you?" 

She  followed  him  and  again  took  him  by  the 
hand. 

"Are  we  going  home  already  ?**  asked  Fritz. 

"Yes;  we  will  sit  by  the  open  window  until  it 
grows  quite  dark." 

Before  long  they  had  reached  the  fdot  of  the  hill 
and  they  began  to  walk  towards  the  town  in  the 
shade  of  the  chestnut  trees  which  bordered  the  high- 
road, now  white  with  dust.  Here  again  they  met 
but  few  people.    Along  the  road  a  couple  of  wagons 


BERTHA  GARLAN  ^ 

came  towards  them,  the  drivers,  whip  in  hand, 
trudging  along  beside  the  horses.  Then  two  cyclists 
rode  by  from  the  town  towards  the  country,  leaving 
clouds  of  dust  behind  them.  Bertha  stopped  me- 
chanically and  gazed  after  them  until  they  had  almost 
disappeared  from  view. 

In  the  meantime  Fritz  had  clambered  up  onto  the 
bench  beside  the  road. 

"Look,  mamma!  See  what  I  can  do!" 

He  made  ready  to  jump,  but  his  mother  took 
hold  of  him  by  the  arms  and  lifted  him  carefully 
to  the  ground.    Then  she  sat  down  on  the  bench. 

"Are  you  tired?"  asked  Fritz. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  surprised  to  find  that  she 
was  indeed  feeling  fatigued. 

It  was  only  then  that  she  realized  that  the  sultry 
air  had  wearied  her  to  the  point  of  sleepiness.  She 
could  not,  moreover,  remember  having  experienced 
such  warm  weather  in  the  middle  of  May. 

From  the  bench  on  which  she  was  sitting  she  could 
trace  back  the  course  of  the  path  down  which  she  had 
come.  In  the  sunlight  it  ran  between  the  vine-trel- 
lises,^  up  and  up,  until  it  reached  the  brightly  gleam- 
ing wall  of  the  cemetery.  She  was  in  the  habit  of 
taking  a  walk  along  that  path  two  or  three  times  a 
week.  She  had  long  since  ceased  to  regard  such 
visits  to  the  cemetery  as  an)rthing  other  than  a  mere 
walk.  When  she  wandered  about  the  well-kept 
gravel  paths  amongst  the  crosses  and  the  tombstones, 
or  stood  offering  up  a  silent  prayer  beside  her  hus- 


4  BERTHA  GARLAN 

band's  grave,  or,  maybe,  laying  upon  it  a  few  wild 
flowers  which  she  had  plucked  on  her  way  up,  her 
heart  was  scarcely  any  longer  stirred  by  the  slightest 
throb  of  pain.  Three  years  had,  indeed,  passed 
since  her  husband  had  died,  which  was  just  as  long 
as  their  married  life  had  lasted. 

Her  eyes  closed  and  her  mind  went  back  to  the 
time  when  she  had  first  come  to  the  town,  only  a  few 
days  after  their  marriage — which  had  taken  place 
in  Vienna.  They  had  only  indulged  in  a  modest 
honeymoon  trip,  such  as  a  man  in  humble  circum- 
stances, who  had  married  a  woman  without  any 
dowry,  could  treat  himself  to.  They  had  taken  the 
boat  from  Vienna,  up  the  river,  to  a  little  village  in 
Wachau,  not  far  from  their  future  home,  and  had 
spent  a  few  days  there.  Bertha  could  still  remember 
clearly  the  little  inn  at  which  they  had  stayed,  the 
riverside  garden  in  which  they  used  to  sit  after  sun- 
set, and  those  quiet,  rather  tedious,  evenings  which 
were  so  completely  different  from  those  her  girlish 
imagination  had  previously  pictured  to  her  as  the 
evenings  which  a  newly-married  couple  would 
spend.    Of  course,  she  had  had  to  be  content. 

She  was  twenty-six  years  old  and  quite  alone  in 
the  world  when  Victor  Mathias  Garlan  had  pro- 
posed to  her.  Her  parents  had  recently  died.  A 
long  time  before,  one  of  her  brothers  had  gone  to 
America  to  seek  his  fortune  as  a  merchant.  Her 
younger  brother  was  on  the  stage ;  he  had  married 
an  actress,  and  was  playing  comedy  parts  in  third- 


BERTHA  GARLAN  5 

rate  German  theatres.  She  was  almost  out  of  touch 
with  her  relations  and  the  only  one  whom  she  visited 
occasionally  was  a  cousin  who  had  married  a  lawyer. 
But  even  that  friendship  had  g^own  cool  as  years  had 
passed,  because  the  cousin  had  become  wrapped  up 
in  her  husband  and  children  exclusively,  and  had 
almost  ceased  to  take  any  interest  in  the  doings  of 
her  unmarried  friend. 

Herr  Garlan  was  a  distant  relation  of  Bertha's 
mother.  When  Bertha  was  quite  a  young  girl  he  had 
often  visited  the  house  and  made  love  to  her  in  a 
rather  awkward  way.  In  those  days  she  had  no 
reasons  to  encourage  him,  because  it  was  in  another 
guise  that  her  fancy  pictured  life  and  happiness  to 
her.  She  was  young  and  pretty ;  her  parents,  though 
not  actually  wealthy  people,  were  comfortably  off, 
and  her  hope  was  rather  to  wander  about  the  world 
as  a  great  pianiste,  perhaps,  as  the  wife  of  an  artist, 
than  to  lead  a  modest  existence  in  the  placid  routine 
of  the  home  circle.  But  that  hope  soon  faded.  One 
day  her  father,  in  a  transport  of  domestic  fervour, 
forbade  her  further  attendance  at  the  conservatoire 
of  music,  which  put  an  end  to  her  prospects  of  an 
artistic  career  and  at  the  same  time  to  her  friendship 
with  the  young  violinist  who  had  since  made  such 
a  name  for  himself. 

The  next  few  years  were  singularly  dull.  At 
first,  it  is  true,  she  felt  some  slight  disappointment, 
or  even  pain,  but  these  emotions  were  certainly  of 
short  duration.    Later  on  she  had  received  offers 


6  BERTHA  GARLAN 

of  marriage  from  a  young  doctor  and  a  merchant. 
She  refused  both  of  them ;  the  doctor  because  he  was 
too  ugly,  and  the  merchant  because  he  lived  in  a 
country  town.  Her  parents,  too,  were  by  no  means 
enthusiastic  about  either  suitor. 

When,  however.  Bertha's  twenty-sixth  birthday 
passed  and  her  father  lost  his  modest  competency 
through  a  bankruptcy,  it  had  been  her  lot  to  put  up 
with  belated  reproaches  on  the  score  of  all  sorts  of 
things  which  she  herself  had  begun  to  forget — ^her 
youthful  artistic  ambitions,  her  love  affair  of  long 
ago  with  the  violinist,  which  had  seemed  likely  to 
lead  to  nothing,  and  the  lack  of  encouragement  which 
the  ugly  doctor  and  the  merchant  from  the  country 
received  at  her  hands. 

At  that  time  Victor  Mathias  Garlan  was  no 
longer  resident  in  Vienna.  Two  years  before,  the 
insurance  company,  in  which  he  had  been  employed 
since  he  had  reached  the  age  of  twenty,  had,  at  his 
own  request,  transferred  him,  in  the  capacity  of 
manager,  to  the  recently-established  branch  in  the 
little  town  on  the  Danube  where  his  married  brother 
carried  on  business  as  a  wine  merchant.  In  the 
course  of  a  somewhat  lengthy  conversation  which 
took  place  on  the  occasion  of  his  farewell  visit  to 
Bertha's  parents,  and  which  created  a  certain  im- 
pression upon  her,  he  had  mentioned  that  the  prin- 
cipal reasons  for  his  asking  to  be  transferred  to 
the  little  town  were  that  he  felt  himself  to  be  getting 
on  in  years,  that  he  had  no  longer  any  idea  of  seek- 


BERTHA  GARLAN  7 

ing  a  wife,  and  that  he  desired  to  have  some  sort  of 
a  home  amongst  people  who  were  closely  connected 
with  him.  At  that  time  Bertha's  parents  had  made 
fun  of  his  notion,  which  seemed  to  them  somewhat 
hypochondriacal,  for  Garlan  was  then  scarcely 
forty  years  old.  Bertha  herself,  however,  had  found 
a  good  deal  of  common  sense  in  Garlan's  reason,  in- 
asmuch as  he  had  never  appeared  to  her  as,  prop- 
erly speaking,  a  young  man. 

In  the  course  of  the  following  years  Garlan  used 
often  to  come  to  Vienna  on  business,  and  never 
omitted  to  visit  Bertha's  family  on  such  occasions. 
After  supper  it  was  Bertha's  custom  to  play  the 
piano  for  Garlan's  entertainment,  and  he  used  to 
listen  to  her  with  an  almost  reverent  attention,  and 
would,  perhaps,  go  on  to  talk  of  his  little  nephew 
and  niece — who  were  both  very  musical — and  to 
whom  he  would  often  speak  of  Fraulein  Bertha  as 
the  finest  pianiste  he  had  ever  heard. 

It  seemed  strange,  and  Bertha's  mother  could  not 
refrain  from  commenting  now  and  again  upon  it, 
that,  since  his  diffident  wooing  in  the  old  days,  Herr 
Garlan  had  not  once  ventured  so  much  as  to  make 
the  slightest  further  allusion  to  the  past,  or  even  to 
a  possible  future.  And  thus  Bertha,  in  addition  to 
the  other  reproaches  to  which  she  had  to  listen,  in- 
curred the  blame  for  treating  Herr  Garlan  with  too 
great  indifference,  if  not,  indeed,  with  actual  cold- 
ness. Bertha,  however,  only  shook  her  head,  for 
at  that  time  she  had  not  so  much  as  contemplated  the 


8  BERTHA  GARLAN 

possibility  of  marrying  this  somewhat  awkward  man, 
who  had  grown  old  before  his  time. 

After  the  sudden  death  of  her  mother,  which  hap- 
pened at  a  time  when  her  father  had  been  lying  ill 
for  many  months,  Garlan  reappeared  upon  the  scene 
with  the  announcement  that   he   had   obtained   a 
month's  holiday — the  only  one  for  which  he  had 
ever  applied.    It  was  clearly  evident  to  Bertha  that 
his  sole  purpose  in  coming  to  Vienna  was  to  be  of 
help  to  her  in  that  time  of  trouble  and  distress.  And 
when  Bertha's  father  died  a  week  after  the  funeral 
of  her  mother,  Garlan  proved  himself  to  be  a  true 
friend,  and  one,  moreover,  blessed  with  an  amount 
of  energy  for  which  she  had  never  given  him  credit. 
He  prevailed  on  his  sister-in-law  to  come  to  Vienna, 
so  that  she  could  help  Bertha  to  tide  over  the  first 
few  weeks  of  her  bereavement,  besides,  in  some 
slight  degree,  distracting  her  thoughts.    He  settled 
the  business  affairs  capably  and  quickly.    His  kind- 
ness of  heart  did  much  to  cheer  Bertha  during  those 
sad  days,  and  when,  on  the  expiration  of  his  leave, 
he  asked  her  whether  she  would  be  his  wife  she 
acquiesced  with  a  feeling  of  the  most  profound 
gratitude.     She  was,  of  course,  aware  of  the  fact 
that  if  she  did  not  marry-  him  she  would  in  a  few 
months'  time  have  to  earn  her  own  living,  probably 
as  a  teacher,  and,  besides,  she  had  come  to  appre- 
ciate   Garlan    and    had    become    so    used    to    his, 
company  that  she  was  able,  in  all  sincerity,  to  answer 
"Yes,"  both  when  he  led  her  to  the  altar  and  sub- 


BERTHA  GARLAN  9 

sequently  when,  as  they  set  off  for  their  honeymoon, 
he  asked  her,  for  the  first  time,  if  she  loved  him. 

It  was  true  that  at  the  very  outset  of  their  married 
life  she  discovered  that  she  felt  no  love  for  him. 
She  just  let  him  love  her  and  put  up  with  the  fact, 
at  first  with  a  certain  surprise  at  her  own  disillusion- 
ment and  afterwards  with  indifference.  It  was  not 
until  she  found  that  she  was  about  to  become  a 
mother  that  she  could  bring  herself  to  reciprocate 
his  affection.  She  very  soon  grew  accustomed  to 
the  quiet  life  of  the  little  town,  all  the  more  easily 
because  even  in  Vienna  she  had  led  a  somewhat  se- 
cluded existence.  With  her  husband's  family  she 
felt  quite  happy  and  comfortable;  her  brother-in- 
law  appeared  to  be  a  most  genial  and  amiable  per- 
son, if  not  altogether  innocent  of  an  occasional 
display  of  coarseness;  his  wife  was  good-natured, 
and  inclined  at  times  to  be  melancholy.  Garlan's 
nephew,  who  was  thirteen  years  old  at  the  time  of 
Bertha's  arrival  at  the  little  town,  was  a  pert,  good- 
looking  boy;  and  his  niece,  a  very  sedate  child  of 
nine,  with  large,  astonished  eyes,  conceived  a  strong 
attachment  for  Bertha  from  the  very  first  moment 
that  they  met. 

When  Bertha's  child  was  bom,  he  was  hailed  by 
the  children  as  a  welcome  plaything,  and,  for  the 
next  two  years,  Bertha  felt  completely  happy.  She 
even  believed  at  times  that  it  was  impossible  that 
her  fate  could  have  taken  a  more  favourable  shape. 
The  noise  and  bustle  of  the  great  city  came  back 


10  BERTHA  GARLAN 

to  her  memory  as  something  unpleasant,  almost 
hazardous;  and  on  one  occasion  when  she  had  ac- 
companied her  husband  to  Vienna,  fti  order  to  make 
a  few  purchases  and  it  so  chanced,  to  her  annoyance, 
that  the  streets  were  wet  and  muddy  with  the  rain, 
she  vowed  never  again  to  undertake  that  tedious  and 
wholly  unnecessary  journey  of  three  hours'  duration. 
Her  husband  died  suddenly  one  spring  morning 
three  years  after  their  marriage.  Bertha's  conster- 
nation was  extreme.  She  felt  that  she  had  never 
taken  into  consideration  the  mere  possibility  of  such 
an  event.  She  was  left  in  very  straitened  circum- 
stances. Soon,  however,  her  sister-in-law,  with 
thoughtful  kindness,  devised  a  means  by  which  the 
widow  could  support  herself  without  appearing  to 
accept  anything  in  the  nature  of  charity.  She  asked 
Bertha  to  take  over  the  musical  education  of  her 
children,  and  also  procured  for  her  an  engagement 
as  music  teacher  to  other  families  in  the  town.  It 
was  tacitly  understood  amongst  the  ladies  who  en- 
gaged her  that  they  should  always  make  it  appear 
as  if  Bertha  had  undertaken  these  lessons  only  for 
the  sake  of  a  little  distraction,  and  that  they  paid  her 
for  them  only  because  they  could  not  possibly  allow 
her  to  devote  so  much  time  and  trouble  in  that  way 
without  some  return.  What  she  earned  from  this 
source  was  quite  sufficient  to  supplement  her  income 
to  an  amount  adequate  to  meet  the  demands  of  her 
mode  of  living,  and  so,  when  time  had  deadened 
the  first   keen  pangs  and  the    subsequent    sorrow 


BERTHA  GARLAN  ii 

occasioned  by  her  husband's  death,  she  was  again 
quite  contented  and  cheerful.  Her  life  up  to  then 
had  not  been  spent  in  such  a  way  as  to  cause  her 
now  to  feel  the  lack  of  anything.  Such  thoughts 
as  she  gave  to  the  future  were  occupied  by  scarcely 
any  other  theme  than  her  son  in  the  successive  stages 
of  his  growth,  and  it  was  only  on  rare  occasions 
that  the  likelihood  of  marrying  a  second  time  crossed 
her  mind,  and  then  the  idea  was  always  a  mere  fleet- 
ing fancy,  for  as  yet  she  had  met  no  one  whom  she 
was  able  seriously  to  regard  in  the  light  of  a  possible 
second  husband.  The  stirrings  of  youthful  desires, 
which  she  sometimes  felt  within  her  in  her  waking 
morning  hours,  always  vanished  as  the  day  pursued 
its  even  course.  It  was  only  since  the  advent  of  the 
spring  that  she  had  felt  a  certain  disturbance  of 
her  previous  sensation  of  well-being ;  no  longer  were 
her  nights  passed  in  the  tranquil  and  dreamless  sleep 
of  heretofore,  and  at  times  she  was  oppressed  by  a 
sensation  of  tedium,  such  as  she  had  never  experi- 
enced before.  Strangest  of  all,  however,  was  the 
sudden  access  of  lassitude  which  would  often  come 
over  her  even  in  the  daytime,  under  the  influence  of 
wh.ch  she  fancied  that  she  could  trace  the  course 
of  her  blood  as  it  circled  through  her  body.  She 
remembered  that  she  had  experienced  a  similar  sen- 
sation in  the  days  when  she  was  emerging  from 
childhood.  At  first  this  feeling,  in  spite  of  its 
familiarity,  was  yet  so  strange  to  her  that  it  seemed 
as  though  one  of  her  friends  must  have  told  her 


12  BERTHA  GARLAN 

about  it.  It  was  only  when  it  recurred  with  ever- 
increasing  frequency  that  she  reaHzed  that  she  her- 
self had  experienced  it  before. 

She  shuddered,  with  a  feeling  as  though  she  were 
waking  from  sleep.    She  opened  her  eyes. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  the  air  was  all  a-whirl ;  the 
shadows  had  crept  halfway  across  the  road;  away 
up  on  the  hilltop  the  cemetery  wall  no  longer  gleamed 
in  the  sunlight.  Bertha  rapidly  shook  her  head  to 
and  fro  a  few  times  as  though  to  waken  herself 
thoroughly.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  a  whole  day  and 
a  whole  night  had  elapsed  since  she  had  sat  down  on 
the  bench.  How  was  it,  then,  that  in  her  conscious- 
ness time  passed  in  so  disjointed  a  fashion?  She 
looked  around  her.  Where  could  Fritz  have  gone 
to?  Oh,  there  he  was  behind  her,  playing  with  Doc- 
tor Friedrich's  children.  The  nursemaid  was  on 
her  knees  beside  them,  helping  them  to  build  a  castle 
with  the  sand. 

The  avenue  was  now  less  deserted  than  it  had 
been  earlier  in  the  evening.  Bertha  knew  almost 
all  the  people  who  passed ;  she  saw  them  every  day. 
As,  however,  most  of  them  were  not  people  to  whom 
she  was  in  the  habit  of  talking,  they  flitted  by  Jke 
shadows.  Yonder  came  the  saddler,  Peter  Nowak, 
and  his  wife;  Doctor  Rellinger  drove  by  in  his  little 
country  trap  and  bowed  to  her  as  he  passed ;  he  was 
followed  by  the  two  daughters  of  Herr  Wendelein, 
the  landowner;  presently  Lieutenant  Baier  and  his 
fiancie  cycled  slowly  down  the  road  on  their  way 


BERTHA  GARLAN  13 

to  the  country.  Then,  again,  there  seemed  to  be  a 
short  lull  in  the  movement  before  her  and  Bertha 
heard  nothing  but  the  laughter  of  the  children  as 
they  played. 

Then,  again,  she  saw  that  some  one  was  slowly 
approaching  from  the  town,  and  she  recognized  who 
it  was  while  he  was  still  a  long  way  off.  It  was 
Herr  Klingemann,  to  whom  of  late  she  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  talking  more  frequently  than  had  pre- 
viously been  her  custom.  Some  twelve  years  ago 
or  more  he  had  moved  from  Vienna  to  the  little 
town.  Gossip  had  it  that  he  had  at  one  time  been 
a  doctor,  and  had  been  obliged  to  give  up  his  prac- 
tice on  account  of  some  professional  error,  or  even 
of  some  more  serious  lapse.  Some,  however,  as- 
serted that  he  had  never  qualified  as  a  doctor 
at  all,  but,  failing  to  pass  his  examinations,  had 
finally  given  up  the  study  of  medicine.  Herr  Klinge- 
mann, for  his  own  part,  gave  himself  out  to  be  a 
philosopher,  who  had  grown  weary  of  life  in  the 
great  city  after  having  enjoyed  it  to  satiety,  and  for 
that  reason  had  moved  to  the  little  town,  where  he 
could  live  comfortably  on  what  remained  of  his 
fortune. 

He  was  now  but  little  more  than  five-and- forty. 
There  were  still  times  when  he  was  of  a  genial 
enough  aspect,  but,  for  the  most  part,  he  had  an 
extremely  dilapidated  and  disagreeable  appearance. 

While  yet  some  distance  away  he  smiled  at  the 
young  widow,  but  did  not  hasten  his  steps.   Finally 


14  BERTHA  GARLAN 

he  stopped  before  her  and  gave  her  an  ironical  nod, 
which  was  his  habitual  manner  of  greeting  people. 

"Good  evening,  my  pretty  lady !"  he  said. 

Bertha  returned  his  salutation.  It  was  one  of 
those  days  on  which  Herr  Klingemann  appeared  to 
make  some  claim  to  elegance  and  youth  fulness. 
He  was  attired  in  a  dark  grey  frock  coat,  so  tightly 
fitting  that  he  might  almost  have  been  wearing 
stays.  On  his  head  was  a  narrow  brimmed  brown 
straw  hat  with  a  black  band.  About  his  throat, 
moreover,  there  was  a  very  tiny  red  cravat,  set 
rather  askew. 

For  a  time  he  remained  silent,  tugging  his  slightly 
grizzled  fair  moustache  upwards  and  downwards. 

"I  presume  you  have  come  from  up  there,  my  dear 
lady?"  he  said. 

Without  turning  his  head  or  even  his  eyes,  he 
pointed  his  finger  over  his  shoulder,  in  a  somewhat 
contemptuous  manner,  in  the  direction  of  the  ceme- 
tery behind  him. 

Throughout  the  town  Herr  Klingemann  was 
known  as  a  man  to  whom  nothing  was  sacred,  and 
as  he  stood  before  her,  Bertha  could  not  help  think- 
ing of  the  various  bits  of  gossip  that  she  had  heard 
about  him.  It  was  well  known  that  his  relations 
with  his  cook,  whom  he  always  referred  to  as  his 
housekeeper,  were  of  a  somewhat  more  intimate 
nature  than  that  merely  of  master  and  servant,  and 
his  name  was  also  mentioned  in  connexion  with  the 
wife  of  a  tobacconist,  who,  as  he  had  himself  told 


BERTHA  GARLAN  15 

Bertha  with  proud  regret,  deceived  him  with  a  cap- 
tain of  the  regiment  stationed  in  the  town.  More- 
over, there  were  several  eligible  girls  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood who  cherished  a  certain  tender  interest  in 
him. 

Whenever  these  things  were  hinted  at  Herr 
Klingemann  always  made  some  sneering  remark  on 
the  subject  of  marriage  in  general,  which  shocked 
the  susceptibilities  of  many,  but,  on  the  whole,  ac- 
tually increased  the  amount  of  respect  in  which  he 
was  held. 

"I  have  been  out  for  a  short  walk,"  said  Bertha. 

"Alone?" 

"Oh,  no ;  with  my  boy." 

"Yes — yes — of  course,  there  he  is!  Good  eve- 
ning, my  little  mortal !" — ^he  gazed  away  over  Fritz's 
head  as  he  said  this — "may  I  sit  down  for  a  moment 
beside  you,  Frau  Bertha?" 

He  pronounced  her  name  with  an  ironic  inflec- 
tion and,  without  waiting  for  her  to  reply,  he  sat 
down  on  the  bench. 

"I  heard  you  playing  the  piano  this  morning,"  he 
continued.  "Do  you  know  what  kind  of  an  impres- 
sion it  made  upon  me  ?  This :  that  with  you  music 
must  take  the  place  of  everything." 

He  repeated  the  word  "everything"  and,  at  the 
same  time,  looked  at  Bertha  in  a  manner  which 
caused  her  to  blush. 

"What  a  pity  I  so  seldom  have  the  opportunity 
of  hearing  you  play!"  he  went  on.  "If  I  don't  hap- 


l6  BERTHA  GARLAN 

pen  to  be  passing  your  open  window  when  you  are 
at  the  piano " 

Bertha  noticed  that  he  kept  on  edging  nearer  to 
her,  and  that  his  arm  was  touching  hers.  Invol- 
untarily, she  moved  away.  Suddenly  she  felt  herself 
seized  from  behind,  her  head  pulled  back  over  the 
bench  and  a  hand  clasped  over  her  eyes. 

For  a  moment  she  thought  that  it  was  Klinge- 
mann's  hand,  which  she  felt  upon  her  lids. 

"Why,  you  must  be  mad,  sir,"  she  cried. 

"How  funny  it  is  to  hear  you  call  me  'Sir,'  Aunt 
Bertha !"  replied  the  laughing  voice  of  a  boy  at  her 
back. 

"Well,  do  let  me  at  least  open  my  eyes,  Richard," 
said  Bertha,  trying  to  remove  the  boy's  hands  from 
her  face.  "Have  you  come  from  home !"  she  added, 
turning  round  towards  him. 

"Yes,  Aunt,  and  here's  the  newspaper  which  I 
have  brought  you." 

Bertha  took  the  paper  which  he  handed  to  her 
and  began  to  read  it. 

Klingemann,  meanwhile,  rose  to  his  feet  and 
turned  to  Richard. 

"Have  you  done  your  exercises  already?"  he 
asked. 

"We  have  no  exercises  at  all  now,  Herr  Klinge- 
mann, because  our  final  examination  is  to  take  place 
in  July." 

"So  you  will  actually  be  a  student  by  this  time 
next  year?" 


BERTHA  GARLAN  17 

"This  time  next  year!   It'll  be  in  the  autumn!" 

As  he  said  this  Richard  drummed  his  fingers  along 
the  newspaper. 

"What  do  you  want,  then,  you  ill-mannered  fel- 
low?" asked  Bertha. 

"I  say,  Aunt,  will  you  come  and  visit  me  when  I 
am  in  Vienna  ?" 

"Yes,  I  should  like  to  catch  myself!  I  shall  be 
glad  to  be  rid  of  you !" 

"Here  comes  Herr  Rupius!"  said  Richard. 

Bertha  lowered  the  paper  and  looked  in  the  direc- 
tion indicated  by  her  nephew's  glance.  Along  the 
avenue  leading  from  the  town  a  maidservant  came, 
pushing  an  invalid's  chair,  in  which  a  man  was  sit- 
tings His  head  was  uncovered  and  his  soft  felt  hat 
was  lying  upon  his  knees,  from  which  a  plaid  rug 
reached  down  to  his  feet.  His  forehead  was  lofty ; 
his  hair  smooth  and  fair  and  slightly  grizzled  at 
the  temples;  his  feet  were  peculiarly  large.  As  he 
passed  the  bench  on  which  Bertha  was  seated  he 
only  inclined  his  head  slightly,  without  smiling. 
Bertha  knew  that,  had  she  been  alone,  he  would  cer- 
tainly have  stopped;  moreover,  he  looked  only  at 
her  as  he  passed  by,  and  his  greeting  seemed  to  apply 
to  her  alone.  It  seemed  to  Bertha  that  she  had 
never  before  seen  such  a  grave  look  in  his  eyes  as 
on  this  occasion,  and  she  was  exceedingly  sorry,  for 
she  felt  a  profound  compassion  for  the  paralysed 
man. 


i8  BERTHA  GARLAN 

When  Hcrr  Rupius  had  passed  by,  Klingeinann 
said: 

"PcK)r  devil !  And  wifie  is  away  as  usual  on  one 
of  her  visits  to  Vienna,  eh  ?" 

"No,"  answered  Bertha,  almost  angrily.  "I  was 
speaking  to  her  only  an  hour  ago." 

Klingemann  was  silent,  for  he  felt  that  further 
remarks  on  the  subject  of  the  mysterious  visits  of 
Frau  Rupius  to  Vienna  might  not  have  been  in 
keeping  with  his  own  reputation  as  a  freethinker, 

"Won't  he  really  ever  be  able  to  walk  again?" 
asked  Richard. 

"No,"  said  Bertha. 

She  knew  this  for  a  fact  because  Herr  Rupius 
had  told  her  so  himself  on  one  occasion  when  she 
had  called  on  him  and  his  wife  was  in  Vienna. 

At  that  moment  Rerr  Rupius  seemed  to  her  to  be 
a  particularly  pitiful  figure,  for,  as  he  was  being 
wheeled  past  her  in  his  invalid's  chair,  she  had,  in 
reading  the  paper,  lighted  upon  the  name  of  one 
whom  she  regarded  as  a  happy  man. 

Mechanically  she  read  the  paragraph  again. 

"Our  celebrated  compatriot  Emil  Lindbach  re- 
turned to  Vienna  a  few  days  ago  after  his  profes- 
sional tour  through  France  and  Spain,  in  the  course 
of  which  he  met  with  many  a  triumphant  recep- 
tion. In  Madrid  this  distinguished  artist  had  the 
honour  of  playing  before  the  Queen  of  Spain.  On 
the  24th  of  this  month  Herr  Lindbach  will  take  part 
in  the  charity  concert  which  has  been  organized  for 


BERTHA  GARLAN  19 

the  relief  of  the  inhabitants  of  Vorarlberg,  who  have 
suffered  such  severe  losses  as  a  result  of  the  recent 
floods.  A  keen  interest  in  the  concert  is  being^ 
shown  by  the  public  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the 
season  is  so  far  advanced." 

Emil  Lindbach!  It  required  a  certain  effort  on 
Bertha's  part  to  realize  that  this  was  the  same  man 
whom  she  had  loved — how  many? — twelve  years 
ago.  Twelve  years !  She  could  feel  the  hot  blood 
mount  up  into  her  brow.  It  seemed  to  her  as  though 
she  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  having  gradually  grown 
older. 

The  sun  had  set.  Bertha  took  Fritz  by  the  hand, 
bade  the  others  good  evening,  and  walked  slowly 
homewards. 

She  lived  on  the  first  floor  of  a  house  in  a  new 
street.  From  her  windows  she  had  a  view  of  the 
hill,  and  opposite  were  only  vacant  sites. 

Bertha  handed  Fritz  over  to  the  care  of  the  maid, 
sat  down  by  the  window,  took  up  the  paper  and  be- 
gan to  read  again.  She  had  kept  the  custom  of 
glancing  through  the  art  news  first  of  all.  This  habit 
had  been  formed  in  the  days  of  her  early  childhood, 
when  she  and  her  brother,  who  was  now  an  actor, 
used  to  go  to  the  top  gallery  of  the  Burg-Theater 
together.  Her  interest  in  art  naturally  grew  when 
she  attended  the  conservatoire  of  music;  in  those 
days  she  had  been  acquainted  with  the  names  of 
even  the  minor  actors,  singers  and  pianists.  Later 
on,  when  her  frequent  visits  to  the  theatres,  the 


20  BERTHA  GARLAN 

studies  at  the  conservatoire  and  her  own  artistic 
aspirations  came  to  an  end,  there  still  lingered  within 
her  a  kind  of  sympathy,  which  was  not  free  from 
the  touch  of  homesickness,  towards  that  joyous 
world  of  art.  But  during  the  latter  portion  of  her 
life  in  Vienna  all  these  things  had  retained  scarcely 
any  of  their  former  significance  for  her;  just  as 
little,  indeed,  as  they  had  possessed  since  she  had 
come  to  reside  in  the  little  town,  where  occasional 
amateur  concerts  were  the  best  that  was  offered  in 
the  way  of  artistic  enjoyment.  One  evening  during 
the  first  year  of  her  married  life,  she  had  taken  part 
in  one  of  these  concerts  at  the  "Red  Apple"  Hotel. 
She  had  played  two  marches  by  Schubert  as  a  duet 
with  another  young  lady  in  the  town.  On  that  oc- 
casion her  agitation  had  been  so  gjeat  that  she  had 
vowed  to  herself  never  again  to  appear  in  public,  and 
was  more  than  glad  that  she  had  given  up  her  hopes 
of  an  artistic  career.     ' 

For  such  a  career  a  very  different  temperament 
from  hers  was  necessary — for  example,  one  like 
Emil  Lindbach's.  Yes,  he  was  bom  to  it !  She  had 
recognized  that  by  his  demeanour  the  very  moment 
when  she  had  first  seen  him  step,  on  to  the  dais  at  a 
school  concert.  He  had  smoothed  back  his  hair  in 
an  unaffected  manner,  gazed  at  the  people  below 
with  sardonic  superiority,  and  had  acknowledged 
the  first  applause  which  he  had  ever  received  in  the 
calm,  indifferent  manner  of  one  long  accustomed  to 
such  things. 


BERTHA  GARLAN  21 

It  was  strange,  but  whenever  she  thought  of  Emil 
Lindbach  she  still  saw  him  in  her  mind's  eye  as 
youthful,  even  boyish,  just  as  he  had  been  in  the 
days  when  they  had  known  and  loved  each  other. 
Yet  not  so  long  before,  when  she  had  spent  the  eve- 
ning with  her  brother-in-law  and  his  wife  in  a  res- 
taurant, she  had  seen  a  photograph  of  him  in  an 
illustrated  paper,  and  he  appeared  to  have  changed 
greatly.  He  no  longer  wore  his  hair  long ;  his  black 
moustache  was  curled  downwards;  his  collar  was 
conspicuously  tall,  and  his  cravat  twisted  in  accord- 
ance with  the  fashion  of  the  day.  Her  sister-in-law 
had  given  her  opinion  that  he  looked  like  a  Polish 
count. 

Bertha  took  up  the  newspaper  again  and  was  about 
to  read  on,  but  by  that  time  it  was  too  dark.  She 
rose  to  her  feet  and  called  the  maid.  The  lamp  was 
brought  in  and  the  table  laid  for  supper.  Bertha 
ate  her  meal  with  Fritz,  the  window  remaining  open. 
That  evening  she  felt  an  even  greater  tenderness 
for  her  child  than  usual ;  she  recalled  once  more  to 
memory  the  times  when  her  husband  was  still  alive, 
and  all  manner  of  reminiscences  passed  rapidly 
through  her  mind.  While  she  was  putting  Fritz  to 
bed,  her  glance  lingered  for  quite  a  long  time  on 
her  husband's  portrait,  which  hung  over  the  bed  in 
an  oval  frame  of  dark  brown  wood.  It  was  a  full- 
length  portrait ;  he  was  wearing  a  morning  coat  and 
a  white  cravat,  and  was  holding  his  tall  hat  in  his 
hand.    It  was  all  in  memory  of  their  wedding  day. 


22  BERTHA  GARLAN 

Bertha  knew  for  a  certainty,  at  that  moment,  that 
Herr  Klingemann  would  have  smiled  sarcastically 
had  he  seen  that  portrait. 

Later  in  the  evening  she  sat  down  at  the  piano,  as 
was  a  not  infrequent  custom  of  hers  before  going 
to  bed,  not  so  much  because  of  her  enthusiasm  for 
music,  but  because  she  did  not  want  to  retire  to  rest 
too  early.  On  such  occasions  she  played,  for  the 
most  part,  the  few  pieces  which  she  still  knew  by 
heart — mazurkas  by  Chopin,  some  passages  from 
one  of  Beethoven's  sonatas,  or  the  Kreisleriana. 
Sometimes  she  improvised  as  well,  but  never  pur- 
sued the  theme  beyond  a  succession  of  chords,  which, 
indeed,  were  always  the  same. 

On  that  evening  she  began  at  once  by  striking 
those  chords,  somewhat  more  softly  than  usual ;  then 
she  essayed  various  modulations  and,  as  she  made 
the  last  triad  resound  for  a  long  time  by  means  of 
the  pedal — her  hands  were  now  lying  in  her  lap — 
she  felt  a  gentle  joy  in  the  melodies  which  were 
hovering,  as  it  were,  about  her.  Then  Klingemann's 
observation  recurred  to  her. 

"With  you  music  must  take  the  place  of  every- 
thing!" 

Indeed  he  had  not  been  far  from  the  truth.  Music 
certainly  had  to  take  the  place  of  much. 

But  everything — ?  Oh,  no! 

What  was  that  ?    Footsteps  over  the  way.  .  .  . 

Well,  there  was  nothing  remarkable  in  that.  But 
they  were  slow,  regular  footsteps,  as  though  some- 


BERTHA  GARLAN  23 

body  was  passing  up  and  down.  She  stood  up  and 
went  to  the  window.  It  was  quite  dark,  and  at  first 
she  could  not  recognize  the  man  who  was  walking 
outside.  But  she  knew  that  it  was  Klingemann. 
How  absurd!  Was  he  going  to  haunt  the  vicinity- 
like  a  love-sick  swain? 

"Good  evening,  Frau  Bertha,"  he  said  from 
across  the  road,  and  she  could  see  in  the  darkness 
that  he  raised  his  hat. 

"Good  evening,"  she  answered,  almost  con- 
fusedly. 

"You  were  playing  most  beautifully." 

Her  only  answer  was  to  murmur  "really?"  and 
that  perhaps  did  not  reach  his  ears. 

He  remained  standing  for  a  moment,  then  said: 

"Good  night,  sleep  soundly,  Frau  Bertha." 

He  pronounced  the  word  "sleep"  with  an  empha- 
sis which  was  almost  insolent. 

"Now  he  is  going  home  to  his  cook!"  thought 
Bertha  to  herself. 

Then  suddenly  she  called  to  mind  something 
which  she  had  known  for  quite  a  long  time,  but  to 
which  she  had  not  given  a  thought  since  it  had  come 
to  her  knowledge.  It  was  rumoured  that  in  his  room 
there  hung  a  picture  which  was  always  covered  with 
a  little  curtain  because  its  subject  was  of  a  some- 
what questionable  nature. 

Who  was  it  had  told  her  about  that  picture  ?  Oh, 
yes,  Frau  Rupius  had  told  her  when  they  were  taking 
a  walk  along  the  bank  of  the  Danube  one  day  last 


24  BERTHA  GARLAN 

autumn,  and  she  in  her  turn  had  heard  of  it  from 
some  one  else — Bertha  could  not  remember  from 
whom. 

What  an  odious  man !  Bertha  felt  that  somehow 
she  was  guilty  of  a  slight  depravity  in  thinking  of 
him  and  all  these  things.  She  continued  to  stand  by 
the  window.  It  seemed  to  her  as  though  it  had 
been  an  unpleasant  day.  She  went  over  the  actual 
events  in  her  mind,  and  was  astonished  to  find  that, 
after  all,  the  day  had  just  been  like  many  hundreds 
before  it  and  many,  many  more  that  were  yet  to 
come. 


II 


They  stood  up  from  the  table.  It  had  been  one 
of  those  little  Sunday  dinner  parties  which  the  wine 
merchant  Garlan  was  in  the  habit  of  occasionally 
giving  his  acquaintances.  The  host  came  up  to  his 
sister-in-law  and  caught  her  round  the  waist,  which 
was  one  of  his  customs  on  an  afternoon. 

She  knew  beforehand  what  he  wanted.  When- 
ever he  had  company  Bertha  had  to  play  the  piano 
after  dinner,  and  often  duets  with  Richard.  The 
music  served  as  a  pleasant  introduction  to  a  game 
of  cards,  or,  indeed,  chimed  in  pleasantly  with 
the  game. 

She  sat  down  at  the  piano.  In  the  meantime  the 
door  of  the  smoking-room  was  opened ;  Garlan,  Doc- 
tor Friedrich  and  Herr  Martin  took  their  seats  at  a 
small  baize-covered  table  and  began  to  play.  The 
wives  of  the  three  gentlemen  remained  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, and  Frau  Martin  lit  a  cigarette,  sat  down 
on  the  sofa  and  crossed  her  legs — on  Sundays  she 
always  wore  dress  shoes  and  black  silk  stockings. 
Doctor  Friedrich's  wife  looked  at  Frau  Martin's 
feet  as  though  fixed  to  the  spot  by  enchantment. 
Richard  had  followed  the  gentlemen — he  already 
took  an  interest  in  a  game  of  taroc.  Elly  stood  with 
her  elbows  leaning  on  the  piano  waiting  for  Bertha 

25 


26  BERTHA  GARLAN 

to  begin  to  play.  The  hostess  went  in  and  out  of 
the  room;  she  was  perpetually  giving  orders  in  the 
kitchen,  and  rattling  the  bunch  of  keys  which  she 
carried  in  her  hand.  Once  as  she  came  into  the  room 
Doctor  Friedrich's  wife  threw  her  a  glance  which 
seemed  to  say:  "J^^t  look  how  Frau  Martin  is 
sitting  there !" 

Bertha  noticed  all  those  things  that  day  more 
clearly,  as  it  were,  than  usual,  somewhat  after  the 
manner  in  which  things  are  seen  by  a  person  suf- 
fering from  fever.  She  had  not  as  yet  struck  a 
note.  Then  her  brother-in-law  turned  towards  her 
and  threw  her  a  glance,  which  was  intended  to  re- 
mind her  of  her  duty.  She  began  to  play  a  march 
by  Schubert,  with  a  very  heavy  touch. 

"Softer,"  said  her  brother-in-law,  turning  round 
again. 

"Taroc  with  a  musical  accompaniment  is  a  spe- 
ciality of  this  house,"  said  Doctor  Friedrich. 

"Songs  without  words,  so  to  speak,"  added  Herr 
Martin. 

The  others  laughed.  Garlan  turned  round  to- 
wards Bertha  again,  for  she  had  suddenly  left  off 
playing. 

"I  have  a  slight  headache,"  she  said,  as  if  it  were 
necessary  to  make  some  excuse;  immediately,  how- 
ever, she  felt  as  though  it  were  beneath  her  dignity 
to  say  that,  and  she  added:  "I  don't  feel  any  in- 
clination to  play." 


BERTHA  GARLAN  27 

Everybody  looked  at  her,  feeling  that  something 
rather  out  of  the  common  was  happening. 

"Won't  you  come  and  sit  by  us,  Bertha?"  said 
Frau  Garlan. 

Elly  had  a  vague  idea  that  she  ought  to  show  her 
affection  for  her  aunt,  and  hung  on  her  arm;  and 
the  two  of  them  stood  side  by  side,  leaning  against 
the  piano. 

"Are  you  going  with  us  to  the  'Red  Apple*  this 
evening?"  Frau  Martin  asked  of  her  hostess. 

"No,  I  don't  think  so." 

"Ah,"  broke  in  Herr  Garlan,  "if  we  must  forgo 
our  concert  this  afternoon  we  will  have  one  in  the 
evening  instead — your  lead,  Doctor." 

"The  military  concert?"  asked  Doctor  Fried- 
rich's  wife. 

Frau  Garlan  rose  to  her  feet. 

"Do  you  really  mean  to  go  to  the  *Red  Apple?' 
this  evening,"  she  asked  her  husband. 

"Certainly." 

"Very  well,"  she  answered,  somewhat  flustered, 
and  at  once  went  off  to  the  kitchen  again  to  make 
fresh  arrangements. 

"Richard,"  said  Garlan  to  his  son;  "you  might 
make  haste  and  run  over  and  tell  the  manager  to 
have  a  table  reserved  for  us  in  the  garden." 

Richard  hurried  off,  colliding  in  the  doorway  with 
his  mother,  who  was  just  coming  into  the  room. 
She  sank  down  on  the  sofa  as  though  exhausted. 

"You  can't  believe,"  she  said  to  Doctor  Fried- 


j8  bertha  GARLAN 

rich's  wife;  "how  difficult  it  is  to  make  Brigitta 
linderstand  the  simplest  thing." 

Frau  Martin  had  gone  and  sat  down  beside  her 
husband,  at  the  same  time  throwing  a  glance  towards 
Bertha,  who  was  still  standing  silently  with  Elly  be- 
side the  piano.  Frau  Martin  stroked  her  husband's 
hair,  laid  her  hand  on  his  knee  and  seemed  to  feel 
that  she  was  under  the  necessity  of  showing  the 
company  how  happy  she  was. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  Aunt,"  said  Elly  suddenly  to 
Bertha ;  "let's  go  into  the  garden  for  a  while.  The 
fresh  air  will  drive  your  headache  away." 

They  went  down  the  steps  into  the  courtyard,  in 
the  centre  of  which  a  small  lawn  had  been  laid  out. 
At  the  back,  it  was  shut  off  by  a  wall,  against  which 
stood  a  few  shrubs  and  a  couple  of  young  trees, 
which  still  had  to  be  propped  up  by  stakes.  Away 
over  the  wall  only  the  blue  sky  was  to  be  seen;  in 
boisterous  weather  the  rush  of  the  river  which 
flowed  close  by  could  be  heard.  Two  wicker  garden 
chairs  stood  with  their  backs  against  the  wall,  and 
in  front  of  them  was  a  small  table.  Bertha  and 
Elly  sat  down,  Elly  still  keeping  her  arm  linked  in 
her  aunt's. 

"Tell  you  what,  Elly?" 

"See,  I  am  quite  a  big  girl  now ;  do  tell  me  about 
him." 

Bertha  was  somewhat  alarmed,  for  it  struck  her 
at  once  that  her  niece's  question  did  not  refer  to  her 
dead  husband,  but  to  some  one  else.    And  suddenly 


BERTHA  GARLAN  29 

she  saw  before  her  mind's  eye  the  picture  of  Emil 
Lindbach,  just  as  she  had  seen  it  in  the  illustrated 
paper ;  but  immediately  both  the  vision  and  her  slight 
alarm  vanished,  and  she  felt  a  kind  of  emotion  at 
the  shy  question  of  the  young  girl  who  believed  that 
she  still  grieved  for  her  dead  husband,  and  that  it 
would  comfort  her  to  have  an  opportunity  for  talk- 
ing about  him. 

"May  I  come  down  and  join  you,  or  are  you 
telling  each  other  secrets  ?" 

Richard's  voice  came  at  that  moment  from  a  win- 
dow overlooking  the  courtyard.  For  the  first  time 
Bertha  was  struck  by  the  resemblance  he  bore  to 
Emil  Lindbach.  She  realized,  however,  that  it  might 
perhaps  only  be  the  youthfulness  of  his  manner  and 
his  rather  long  hair  that  put  her  in  mind  of  Emil. 
Richard  was  now  nearly  as  old  as  Emil  had  been 
in  the  days  of  her  studies  at  the  conservatoire.   •  ;< 

"I've  reserved  a  table,"  he  said  as  he  came  into 
the  courtyard.  "Are  you  coming  with  us,  Aunt 
Bertha?"  i'.>r  f;.',o)    >;ii   ;ii  v':<i;/r's 

He  sat  down  on  the  back  of  her  chair,  stroked  her 
cheeks,  and. said  in  his  fresh,  yet  rather  affected, 
way:        nofJI)  'fvyr  t.  lr>AM\\  -c'l  i\     "  liiv  imd 

"You  will  come,  won't  you,  pretty  Aunt,  for  niy 
sake?" 

Mechanically  Bertha  closed  her  eyes.  A  feeling 
of  comfort  stole  over  her,  as  if  some  childish  hand, 
as  if  the  little  fingers  of  her  own  Fritz,  were  caress- 
ing her  cheeks.    Soon,  however,  she  felt  that  some 


gid  BERTHA  GARLAN 

other  memory  as  well  rose  up  in  her  mind.  She 
could  not  help  thinking  of  a  walk  in  the  town  park 
which  she  had  taken  one  evening  with  Emil  after 
her  lesson  at  the  conservatoire.  On  that  occasion 
he  had  sat  down  to  rest  beside  her  on  a  seat,  and 
had  touched  her  cheeks  with  tender  fingers.  Was 
it  only  once  that  that  had  happened?  No — much 
oftener!  Indeed,  they  had  sat  on  that  seat  ten  or 
twenty  times,  and  he  had  stroked  her  cheeks.  How 
strange  it  was  that  all  these  things  should  come 
back  to  her  thoughts  now! 

She  would  certainly  never  have  thought  of  those 
walks  again  had  not  Richard  by  chance — ^but  how 
long  was  she  going  to  put  up  with  his  stroking  her 
cheek? 

"Richard !"  she  exclaimed,  opening  her  eyes.  ' 

She  saw  that  he  was  smiling  in  such  a  way  that 
she  thought  that  he  must  have  divined  what  was 
passing  through  her  mind.  Of  course,  it  was  quite  . 
impossible,  because,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  scarcely' 
anybody  in  the  town  was  aware  that  she  was  ac- 
quainted with  Emil  Lindbach,  the  great  violinist. 
If  it  came  to  that,  was  she  really  acquainted  with 
him  still?  It  was  indeed  a  very  different  person 
from  Emil  as  he  must  now  be  that  she  had  in  mind 
— a  handsome  youth  whom  she  had  loved  in  the 
days  of  her  early  girlhood. 

Thus  her  thoughts  strayed  further  and  further 
back  into  the  past,  and  it  seemed  altogether  im- 


BERTHA  GARLAN  ^t 

possible  for  her  to  return  to  the  present  and  chatter 
with  the  two  children. 

She  bade  them  good-bye  and  went  away. 

The  afternoon  sun  lay  brooding  heavily  upon  the 
streets  of  the  little  town.  The  shops  were  shut,  the 
pavements  almost  deserted.  A  few  officers  were 
sitting  at  a  little  table  in  front  of  the  restaurant  in 
the  market  square.  Bertha  glanced  up  at  the  win- 
dows of  the  first  story  of  the  house  in  which  Herr 
and  Frau  Rupius  lived.  It  was  quite  a  long  time 
since  she  had  been  to  see  them.  She  clearly  re- 
membered the  last  occasion — it  was  the  day  after 
Christmas.  It  was  then  that  she  had  found  Herr 
Rupius  alone  and  that  he  had  told  her  that  his 
affliction  was  incurable.  She  also  remembered  dis- 
tinctly why  she  had  not  called  upon  him  since  that 
day:  although  she  did  not  admit  it  to  herself,  she 
had  a  kind  of  fear  of  entering  that  house  which 
she  had  then  left  with  her  mind  in  a  state  of  violent 
agitation. 

On  the  present  occasion,  however,,  she  felt  that 
she  must  go  up;  it  seemed  as  though  in  the  course 
of  the  last  few  days  a  kind  of  bond  had  been  estab- 
lished between  her  and  the  paralysed  man,  and  as 
though  even  the  glance  with  which  he  had  silently 
greeted  her  on  the  previous  day,  when  she  was  out 
walking,  had  had  some  significance.     •■  i   ;r^K  ■ 

When  she  entered  the  room  her  eyes  had,  first 
of  all,  to  become  accustomed  to  the  dimness  of  the 
light;  the  blinds  were  drawn  and  a  sunbeam  poured 


82  BERTHA  GARLAN 

in  only  through  the  chink  at  the  top,  and  fell  in 
front  of  the  white  stove.  Herr  Rupius  was  sitting 
in  an  armchair  at  the  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room. 
Before  him  lay  stacks  of  prints,  and  he  was  just 
in  the  act  of  picking  up  one  in  order  to  look  at  the 
one  beneath  it.  Bertha  could  see  that  they  were 
engravings. 

"Thank  you  for  coming  to  see  me  once  again," 
he  said,  stretching  out  his  hand  to  her.  "You  see 
what  it  is  I  am  busy  on  just  now?  Well,  it  is  a 
collection  of  engravings  after  the  old  Dutch 
masters.  Believe  me,  my  dear  lady,  it  is  a  great 
pleasure  to  examine  old  engravings." 

"Oh,  it  is,  indeed." 

"See,  there  are  six  volumes,  or  rather  six  port- 
folios, each  containing  twenty  prints.  It  will  prob- 
ably take  me  the  whole  summer  to  become  thor- 
oughly acquainted  with  them." 

Bertha  stood  by  his  side  and  looked  at  the  en- 
graving immediately  before  him.  It  was  a  market 
scene  by  Teniers. 

"The  whole  summer,"  she  said  absent-mindedly. 

Rupius  turned  towards  her. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  he  said,  his  jaw  slightly  set,  as 
though  it  was  a  matter  of  vindicating  his  point  of 
view;  "what  I  call  being  thoroughly  acquainted 
with  a  picture.  By  that  I  mean:  being  able,  so  to 
speak,  to  reproduce  it  in  my  mind,  line  for  line. 
This  one  here  is  a  Teniers — the  original  is  in  one 
of  the  galleries  at  The  Hague.    Why  don't  you  go 


BERTHA  GARLAN  33 

to  The  Hague,  where  so  many  splendid  examples 
of  the  art  of  Teniers  and  so  many  other  styles 
of  painting  are  to  be  seen,  my -dear  lady?** 

Bertha  smiled. 

"How  can  I  think  of  making  such  a  journey  as 
that?" 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course,  that's  so,"  said  Herr  Rupius ; 
"The  Hague  is  a  very  beautiful  town.  I  was  there 
fourteen  years  ago.  At  that  time  I  was  twenty- 
eight,  I  am  now  forty-two— or,  I  might  say,  eighty- 
four" — he  picked  up  the  print  and  laid  it  aside — 
"here  we  have  an  Ostade — 'The  Pipe  Smoker.' 
Quite  so,  you  can  see  easily  enough  that  he  is  smok- 
ing a  pipe.    'Original  in  Vienna.'  " 

"I  think  I  remember  that  picture." 

"Won*t  you  come  and  sit  opposite  to  me,  Frau 
Bertha,  or  here  beside  me,  if  you  would  care  to  look 
at  the  pictures  with  me  ?  Now  we  come  to  a  Falken- 
borg — wonderful,  isn't  it?  In  the  extreme  fore- 
ground, though,  it  seems  so  void,  so  cramped.  Yes, 
nothing  but  a  peasant  lad  dancing  with  a  girl,  and 
there's  an  old  woman  who  is  cross  about  it,  and  here 
is  a  house  out  of  the  door  of  which  someone  is 
coming  with  a  pail  of  water.  Yes,  that  is  all — a 
mere  nothing  of  course,  but  there  in  the  background 
you  see,  is  the  whole  world,  blue  mountains,  green 
towns,  the  clouded  sky  above,  and  near  it  a  tourney 
— ha!  ha! — in  a  certain  sense  perhaps  it  is  out  of 
place,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  in  a  certain  sense  it 
may  be  said  to  be  appropriate.    Since  everything  has 


34  BERTHA  GARLAN 

a  background  and  it  is  therefore  perfectly  right  that 
here,  directly  behind  the  peasant's  house,  the  world 
should  begin  with  its  tourneys,  and  its  mountains, 
its  rivers,  its  fortresses,  its  vineyards  and  its 
forests." 

He  pointed  out  the  various  parts  of  the  picture  to 
which  he  was  referring  with  a  little  ivory  paper- 
knife. 

"Do  you  like  it?"  he  continued.  "The  original 
also  hangs  in  the  Gallery  in  Vienna.  You  must  have 
seen  it." 

"Oh,  but  it  is  now  six  years  since  I  lived  in 
Vienna,  and  for  many  years  before  that  I  had  not 
paid  a  visit  to  the  museum." 

"Indeed  ?  I  have  often  walked  round  the  galleries 
there,  and  stood  before  this  picture,  too.  Yes,  in 
those  earlier  days  I  walked." 

He  was  almost  laughing  as  he  looked  at  her,  and 
her  embarrassment  was  such  that  she  could  not  make 
any  reply. 

"I  fear  I  am  boring  you  with  the  pictures,"  Herr 
Rupius  went  on  abruptly.  "Wait  a  little;  my  wife 
will  be  home  soon.  You  know,  I  suppose,  that  she 
always  goes  for  a  two  hours  walk  after  dinner  now. 
She  is  afraid  of  becoming  too  stout." 

"Your  wife  looks  as  young  and  slender  as  .  .  . 
well,  I  don't  think  she  has  altered  in  the  very  least 
since  I  have  come  to  live  here." 

Bertha  felt  as  though  Rupius*  countenance  had 
grown  quite  rigid.     Then  suddenly  he  said,  in  a 


BERTHA  GARLAN  35 

gentle  tone  of  voice  which  was  not  by  any  means  in 
keeping  with  the  expression  of  his  face : 

"A  quiet  life  in  a  little  town  such  as  this  keeps 
one  young,  of  course.  It  was  a  clever  idea  of  mine 
and  hers,  for  it  occurred  simultaneously  to  both  ot 
us,  to  move  here.  Who  can  say  whether,  had  we 
stayed  in  Vienna,  it  might  not  have  been  all  over 
already  ?" 

Bertha  could  not  guess  what  he  meant  by  the  ex- 
pression "all  over"  ;  whether  he  was  referring  to  his 
own  life,  to  his  wife's  youthfulness,  or  to  something 
else.  In  any  case,  she  was  sorry  that  she  had  called 
that  day ;  a  feeling  of  shame  at  being  so  strong  and 
well  herself  came  over  her. 

"Did  I  tell  you,"  continued  Rupius,  "that  it  was 
Anna  who  got  these  portfolios  for  me?  It  was  a 
chance  bargain,  for  the  work  is  usually  very  expen- 
sive. A  bookseller  had  advertised  it  and  Anna  tele- 
graphed at  once  to  her  brother  to  procure  it  for  us. 
You  know,  of  course,  that  we  have  many  relations 
in  Vienna,  both  Anna  and  myself.  Sometimes,  too, 
she  goes  there  to  visit  them.  Soon  after  they  pay  us 
a  return  visit.  I  should  be  very  glad  indeed  to  see 
them  again,  especially  Anna's  brother  and  his  wife, 
I  owe  them  a  great  deal  of  gratitude.  When  Anna 
is  in  Vienna,  she  dines  and  sleeps  at  their  house — 
but,  of  course,  you  already  know  all  that,  Frau 
Bertha."  fU'riLf 

He  spoke  rapidly  and,  at  the  same  time,  in  a  cool,  * 
businesslike  tone.    It  sounded  as  though  he  had  made 


86  BERTHA  GARLAN 

up  his  mind  to  tell  the  same  things  to  every  one  who 
should  enter  the  room  that  day.  It  was  the  first  time 
that  he  had  as  much  as  spoken  to  Bertha  of  the 
journeys  of  his  wife  to  Vienna. 

"She  is  going  again  to-morrow,"  he  continued; 
"I  believe  the  matter  in  hand  this  time  is  her  summer 
costume." 

"I  think  that  is  a  very  clever  notion  of  your  wife," 
said  Bertha,  glad  to  have  found  an  opening  for  con- 
versation. 

"It  is  cheaper,  at  the  same  time,"  added  Herr 
Rupius.  "Yes,  I  assure  you  it  is  cheaper  even  if  you 
throw  in  the  cost  of  the  journey.  Why  don't  you 
follow  my  wife's  example?" 

"In  that  way,  Herr  Rupius?" 

"Why,  in  regard  to  your  frocks  and  hats !  You 
are  young  and  pretty,  too  1" 

"Heavens  above!  On  whose  account  should  I 
dress  smartly?" 

"On  whose  account!  On  whose  account  is  it  that 
my  wife  dresses  so  smartly?" 

The  door  opened  and  Frau  Rupius  entered  in  a 
bright  spring  costume,  a  red  sunshade  in  her  hand 
and  a  white  straw  hat,  trimmed  with  red  ribbon, 
on  her  dark  hair,  which  was  dressed  high.  A  pleas- 
ant smile  was  hovering  around  her  lips,  as  usual,  and 
she  greeted  Bertha  with  a  quiet  cheerfulness. 

"Are  you  making  an  appearance  in  our  house 
once  more  ?"  she  said,  handing  her  sunshade  and  hat 
to  the  maid,  who  had  followed  her  into  the  room. 


BERTHA  GARLAN  '^7 

"Are  you  also  interested  in  pictures,  Frau  Garlan  ?'* 

She  went  up  close  behind  her  husband  and  sojEtly 
passed  her  hand  over  his  forehead  and  hair.    sroH} 

"I  was  just  telling  Frau  Garlan,"  said  Rupius, 
*'how  surprised  I  am  that  she  never  goes  to  Vienna." 
.  "Indeed,"  Frau  Rupius  put  in ;  "why  don't  you 
do  so?  Moreover,  you  must  certainly  have  some 
acquaintances  there,  too.  Come  with  me  one  day — 
to-morrow,  for  example.     Yes,  to-morrow." 

Rupius  gazed  straight  before  him  while  his  wife 
said  this,  as  though  he  did  not  dare  to  look  at  her. 

"You  are  really  very  kind,  Frau  Rupius,"  said 
r  — tha,  feeling  as  though  a  perfect  stream  of  joy 
was  coursing  through  her  being. 

She  wondered,  too,  how  it  was  that  all  this  time 
the  possibility  of  making  such  a  journey  had  not 
once  entered  her  mind,  the  more  so  as  it  could  be 
accomplished  with  so  little  trouble.  It  appeared  to 
her  at  that  moment  that  such  a  journey  might  be  a 
remedy  for  the  strange  sense  of  dissatisfaction  un- 
der which  she  had  been  suffering  during  the  past  few 
days. 

"Well,  do  you  agree,  Frau  Garlan  ?" 

"I  don't  really  know — I  daresay  I  could  spare 
the  time,  for  I  have  only  one  lesson  to  give  to-mor- 
row at  my  sister-in-law's,  and  she,  of  course,  won't 
be  too  exacting;  but  wouldn't  I  be  putting  you  to 
some  inconvenience?" 

A  slight  shadow  flitted  across  Frau  Rupius'  brow. 

"Putting  me  to  inconvenience!     Whatever  arc 


38  BERTHA  GARLAN 

you  dreaming  of  \  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  have  pleas- 
ant company  during  the  few  hours  of  the  journey 
there  and  back.  And  in  Vienna — oh,  we  shall  be 
sure  to  have  much  to  do  together  in  Vienna." 

"Your  husband,"  said  Bertha,  blushing  like  a  girl 
who  is  speaking  of  her  first  ball,  "has  told  me  .  .  . 
has  advised  me.  ..." 

"Surely,  he  has  been  raving  to  you  about  my  dress- 
maker," said  Frau  Rupius,  laughing. 

Rupius  still  sat  motionless  in  his  chair  and  looked 
at  neither  of  them. 

"Yes,  I  should  really  like  to  ask  you  about  her, 
Frau  Rupius.  When  I  see  you  I  feel  as  if  I  should 
like  to  be  well  dressed  again,  just  as  you  are." 

"That  is  easily  arranged,"  said  Frau  Rupius; 
"I  will  take  you  to  my  dressmaker,  and  by  so  doing 
I  hope  also  to  have  the  pleasure  of  your  company 
on  my  subsequent  visits.  I  am  glad  for  your  sake 
as  well,"  she  said  to  her  husband,  touching  his  hand, 
which  was  lying  on  the  table.  Then  she  turned  to 
Bertha  and  added:  "and  for  yours.  You  will  see 
how  much  good  it  will  do  you.  Wandering  about 
the  streets  without  being  known  to  a  soul  has  a 
wonderful  effect  on  one's  spirits.  I  do  it  from 
time  to  time,  and  I  always  come  back  quite  refreshed 

and "  in  saying  this  she  threw  a  sidelong  glance, 

full  of  anxiety  and  tenderness,  in  the  direction  of 
her  husband — "and  then  I  am  as  happy  here  as 
ever  it  is  possible  to  be ;  happier,  I  believe,  than  any 
other  woman  in  the  world." 


BERTHA  GARLAN  39 

She  drew  near  her  husband  and  kissed  him  on  the 
temple.  Bertha  heard  her  say  in  a  soft  voice,  as 
she  did  so : 

"Dearest!" 

Rupius,  however,  continued  to  stare  before  him 
as  though  he  shrank  from  meeting  his  wife's 
glance. 

Both  were  silent  and  seemed  to  be  absorbed  in 
themselves,  as  though  Bertha  was  not  in  the  room. 
Bertha  comprehended  vaguely  that  there  was  some 
mysterious  factor  in  the  relations  of  these  two  peo- 
ple, but  what  that  factor  was  she  was  not  clever, 
or  not  experienced,  or  not  good  enough  to  under- 
stand. For  a  whole  minute  the  silence  continued, 
and  Bertha  was  so  embarrassed  that  she  would 
gladly  have  gone  away  had  it  not  been  necessary 
to  arrange  with  Frau  Rupius  the  details  of  the  mor- 
row's journey. 

Anna  was  the  first  to  speak.    , 

"So  then  it  is  agreed  that  we  are  to  meet  at  the 
railway  station  in  time  for  the  morning  train — 
isn't  it?  And  I  will  arrange  matters  so  that  we 
return  home  by  the  seven  o'clock  train  in  the  eve- 
ning. In  eight  hours,  you  see,  it  is  possible  to  get 
through  a  good  deal."  , 

"Certainly,"  said  Bertha;  "provided,  of  course, 
that  you  are  not  inconveniencing  yourself  on  my 
account  in  the  slightest  degree." 

Anna  interrupted  her,  almost  angrily. 

"I  have  already  told  you  how  glad  I  am  that 


40  BERTHA  GARLAN 

you  will  be  travelling  with  me,  the  more  so  as  there 
is  not  a  iToman  in  the  town  so  congenial  to  me  as 
you." 

"Yes,"  fliid  Herr  Rupius,  "I  can  corroborate 
that.  You  know,  of  course,  that  my  wife  is  on 
visiting  terms  with  hardly  anybody  here — and  as  it 
has  been  such  a  long  time  since  you  came  to  see  us 
I  was  beginning  to  fear  that  she  was  going  to  lose 
you  as  well." 

"However  could  you  have  thought  such  a  thing? 
My  dear  Herr  Rupius!  And  you,  Frau  Rupius, 
surely  you  haven't  believed " 

At  that  moment  Bertha  felt  an  overwhelming  love 
for  both  of  them.  Her  emotion  was  such  that  she 
detected  her  voice  to  be  assuming  an  almost  tearful 
tone. 

Frau  Rupius  smiled,  a  strange,  deliberate  smile. 

"I  haven't  believed  anything.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
there  are  some  things  over  which  I  do  not  generally 
ponder  for  long.  I  have  no  great  need  of  friends, 
but  you,  Frau  Bertha,  I  really  and  truly  love." 

She  stretched  out  her  hand  to  her.  Bertha  cast 
a  glance  at  Rupius.  It  seemed  to  her  that  an  ex- 
pression of  contentment  should  now  be  observable 
on  his  features.  To  her  amazement,  however,  she 
saw  that  he  was  gazing  into  the  corner  of  the  room 
with  an  almost  terrified  look  in  his  eyes. 

The  parlourmaid  came  in  with  some  coffee.  Fur- 
ther particulars  as  to  their  plans  for  the  morrow 
were  discussed,  and  finally  they  drew  up  a  tolerably 


BERTHA  GARLAN  41 

exact  time-table  which,  to  Frau  Rupius'  slight 
amusement,  Bertha  entered  in  a  little  notebook. 

When  Bertha  reached  the  street  again,  the  slcy 
had  become  overcast,  and  the  increasing  sultriness 
foretold  the  approach  of  a  thunderstorm.  The  first 
large  drops  were  falling  before  she  reached  home, 
and  she  was  somewhat  alarmed  when,  on  going  up- 
stairs, she  failed  to  find  the  servant  and  little  Fritz. 
As  she  went  up  to  the  window,  however,  in  order  to 
shut  it,  she  saw  the  two  come  running  along.  The 
first  thunderclap  crashed  out,  and  she  started  back 
in  terror.  Then  immediately  came  a  brilliant  flash 
of  lightning. 

The  storm  was  brief,  but  unusually  violent. 
Bertha  went  and  sat  on  her  bed,  held  Fritz  on  her 
lap,  and  told  him  a  story,  so  that  he  should  not  be 
frightened.  But,  at  the  same  time,  she  felt  as 
though  there  was  a  certain  connexion  between  her 
experiences  of  the  past  two  days  and  the  thunder- 
storm. 

In  half  an  hour  all  was  over.  Bertha  opened 
the  window";  the  air  was  now  fresh,  the  darkening 
sky  was  clear  and  distant.  Bertha  drew  a  deep 
breath,  and  a  feeling  of  p>eace  and  hope  seemed  to 
permeate  her  being. 

It  was  time  to  get  ready  for  the  concert  in  the 
gardens.  On  her  arrival  she  found  her  friends 
already  gathered  at  a  large  table  beneath  a  tree.  It 
was  Bertha's  intention  to  tell  her  sister-in-law  at 
once  about  her  proposed  visit  to  Vienna  on  the  mor- 


4it  BERTHA  GARLAN 

row,  but  a  sense  of  shyness,  as  though  there  was 
something  underhand  in  the  journey,  caused  her  to 
refrain. 

Herr  Klingemann  went  by  with  his  housekeeper 
towards  their  table.  The  housekeeper  was  getting 
on  towards  middle-age;  she  was  a  very  voluptuous 
looking  woman,  taller  than  Klingemann,  and,  when 
she  walked,  always  appeared  to  be  asleep.  Klinge- 
mann bowed  towards  them  with  exaggerated  po- 
liteness. The  gentlemen  scarcely  acknowledged  the 
salutation,  and  the  ladies  pretended  not  to  have  no- 
ticed it.  Only  Bertha  nodded  slightly  and  gazed 
after  the  couple. 

"That  is  his  sweetheart — yes,  I  know  it  for  a 
positive  fact,"  whispered  Richard,  who  was  sitting 
near  his  aunt. 

Herr  Garlan's  party  ate,  drank  and  applauded. 
At  times  various  acquaintances  came  over  from 
other  tables,  sat  down  with  them  for  awhile,  and 
then  went  away  again  to  their  places.  The  music 
murmured  around  Bertha  without  making  any  im- 
pression on  her.  Her  mind  was  continuously  occu- 
pied with  the  question  as  to  how  to  inform  them  of 
her  project. 

Suddenly,  while  the  music  was  playing  very 
loudly,  she  said  to  Richard : 

*T  say,  I  won't  be  able  to  give  you  a  music  lesson 
to-morrow.    I  am  going  to  Vienna." 

"To  Vienna !"  exclaimed  Richard ;  then  he  called 


BERTHA  GARLAN  .      43 

across  to  his  mother;  "I  say,  Aunt  Bertha  is  going 
to  Vienna  to-morrow!" 

"Who's  going  to  Vienna?"  asked  Garlan,  who 
was  sitting  furthest  away. 

"I  am,"  answered  Bertha. 

"What's  this!  What's  this!"  said  Garlan,  play- 
fully threatening  her  with  his  finger. 

So,  then,  it  was  accomplished.  Bertha  was  glad. 
Richard  made  jokes  about  the  people  who  were  sit- 
ting in  the  garden,  also  about  the  fat  bandmaster 
who  was  always  skipping  about  while  he  was  con- 
ducting, and  then  about  the  trumpet-player  whose 
cheeks  bulged  out  and  who  seemed  to  be  shedding 
tears  when  he  blew  into  his  instrument.  Bertha 
could  not  help  laughing  very  heartily.  Jests  were 
bandied  about  her  high  spirits  and  Doctor  Friedrich 
remarked  that  she  must  surely  be  going  to  some 
rendezvous  at  Vienna,  r^r-f. 71- 

"I  should  like  to  put  a  stop  to  that,  though !"  ex- 
claimed Richard,  so  angrily  that  the  hilarity  became 
general.  ;  ,  '  -  ■  - 

Only  Elly  remained  serious,  and  gazed  at  her  aunt 
in  downright  astonishment. 


Ill 


Bertha  looked  out  through  the  open  carriage 
window  upon  the  landscape;  Frau  Rupius  read  a 
book,  which  she  had  taken  out  of  her  little  traveling- 
bag  very  soon  after  the  train  had  started.  It  al- 
most appeared  as  though  she  wished  to  avoid  any 
lengthy  conversation  with  Bertha,  and  the  latter 
felt  somewhat  hurt.  For  a  long  time  past  she  had 
been  cherishing  a  wish  to  be  a  friend  of  Frau 
Rupius,  but  since  the  previous  day  this  desire  of 
hers  had  become  almost  a  yearning,  which  recalled 
to  her  mind  the  whole-hearted  devotion  of  the 
friendships  of  the  days  of  her  childhood. 

At  first,  therefore,  she  had  felt  quite  unhappy, 
and  had  a  sensation  of  having  been  abandoned,  but 
soon  the  changing  panorama  to  be  seen  through 
the  window  began  to  distract  her  thoughts  in  an 
agreeable  manner.  As  she  looked  at  the  rails  which 
seemed  to  run  to  meet  her,  at  the  hedges  and  tele- 
graph poles  which  glided  and  leaped  past  her,  she 
recalled  to  mind  the  few  short  journeys  to  the  Salz- 
kammergut,  where  she  had  been  taken,  when  a  child, 
by  her  parents,  and  the  indescribable  pleasure  of 
having  been  allowed  to  occupy  a  corner  sea^  on 
those  occasions.  Then  she  looked  into  the  distance 
and  exulted  in  the  gleaming  of  the  river,  in  the 

44 


BERTHA  GARLAN  45 

pleasant  windings  of  the  hills  and  meadows,  in  the 

azure  of  the  sky  and  in  the  white  clouds. 

-  After  a  time  Anna  laid  down  the  book,  and  began 

to  chat  to  Bertha  and  smiled  at  her,  as  though  at  a 

child. 

"Who  would  have  foretold  this  of  us  ?"  said  Frau 
Rupius. 

"That  we  should  be  going  to  Vienna  together?** 

"No,  no,  I  mean  that  we  shall  both — how  shall  I 
express  it? — ^pass  or  end  our  lives  yonder" — she 
gave  a  slight  nod  in  the  direction  of  the  place  from 
which  they  came. 

"Very  true,  indeed!"  answered  Bertha,  who  had 
not  yet  considered  whether  there  was  anything 
really  strange  in  the  fact  or  not. 

"Well,  you,  of  course,  knew  it  the  moment  you 
were  married,  but  I ** 

Frau  Rupius  gazed  straight  before  her. 

"So  then  your  move  to  the  little  town,"  said 
Bertha,  "did  not  take  place  until- — until " 

She  broke  off  in  confusion. 

"Yes,  you  know  that,  of  course." 

In  saying  this  Frau  Rupius  looked  Bertha  full  in 
the  face  as  if  reproaching  her  for  her  question.  But 
when  she  continued  to  speak  she  smiled  gently,  as 
though  her  thoughts  were  not  occupied  by  anything 
so  sad. 

"Yes,  I  never  imagined  that  I  should  leave 
Vienna;  my  husbawd  had  his  position  as  a  govern- 
ment official,  and  indeed  he  would  certainly  have 


46  BERTHA  GARLAN 

been  able  to  remain  longer  there,  in  spite  of  his 
infirmity,  had  he  not  wanted  to  go  away  at  once." 

"He  thought,   perhaps,  that  the   fresh  air,  the 

quiet "  began  Bertha,  and  she  at  once  perceived 

that  she  was  not  saying  anything  very  sensible. 

Nevertheless  Anna  answered  her  quite  affably. 

"Oh,  no,  neither  rest  nor  climate  could  do  him 
any  good,  but  he  thought  that  it  would  be  better 
for  both  of  us  in  every  way.  He  was  right,  too^ 
what  should  we  have  been  able  to  do  if  we  had  re- 
mained in  the  city?" 

Bertha  felt  that  Anna  was  not  telling  her  the 
whole  story  and  she  would  have  liked  to  beg  her  not 
to  hesitate,  but  to  open  her  whole  heart  to  her.  She 
knew,  however,  that  she  was  not  clever  enough  to 
express  such  a  request  in  the  right  words.  Then, 
as  though  Frau  Rupius  had  guessed  that  Bertha  was 
anxious  to  learn  more,  she  quickly  changed  the  sub- 
ject of  their  conversation.  She  asked  Bertha  about 
her  brother-in-law,  the  musical  talent  of  her  pupils, 
and  her  method  of  teaching;  then  she  took  up  the 
novel  again  and  left  Bertha  to  herself. 

Once  she  looked  up  from  the  book  and  said: 

"You  haven't  brought  anything  with  you  to  read, 
then?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  answered  Bertha. 

She  suddenly  remembered  that  she  had  bought  a 
newspaper ;  she  took  it  up  and  turned  over  the  pages 
assiduously.  The  train  drew  near  to  Vienna,  Frau 
Rupius  closed  her  book  and  put  it  in  the  travelling- 


r  BERTHA  GARLAN  47 

bag.  She  looked  at  Bertha  with  a  certain  tender- 
ness, as  at  a  child  who  must  soon  be  sent  away  alone 
to  meet  an  uncertain  destiny. 

"Another  quarter  of  an  hour,"  she  remarked; 
"and  we  shall  be — well,  I  very  nearly  said,  home." 

Before  them  lay  the  town.  On  the  far  side  of  the 
river  chimneys  towered  up  aloft,  rows  of  tall  yellow 
painted  houses  stretched  away  into  the  distance,  and 
steeples  ascended  skywards.  Everything  lay  bask- 
ing in  the  gentle  sunlight  of  May. 

Bertha's  heart  throbbed.  She  experienced  a  sen- 
sation such  as  might  come  over  a  traveller  return- 
ing after  a  long  absence  to  a  longed-for  home,  which 
had  probably  altered  greatly  in  the  meantime,  and 
where  surprises  and  mysteries  of  all  kinds  awaited 
him.  At  the  moment  when  the  train  rolled  into  the 
station  she  seemed  almost  courageous  in  her  own 
eyes. 

Frau  Rupius  took  a  carriage,  and  they  drove  into 
the  town.  As  they  passed  the  Ring,  Bertha  sud- 
denly leaned  out  of  the  window  and  gazed  after  a 
young  man  whose  figure  and  walk  reminded  her  of 
Emil  Lindbach.  She  wished  that  the  young  man 
would  turn  round,  but  she  lost  sight  of  him  with- 
out his  having  done  so. 

The  carriage  stopped  before  a  house  in  the  Kohl- 
markt.  The  two  ladies  got  out  and  made  their  way 
to  the  third  floor,  where  the  dressmaker's  workroom 
was  situated.  While  Frau  Rupius  tried  on  her  new 
costume,  Bertha  had  various  materials  displayed  to 


'48  BERTHA  GARLAN 

her  from  which  she  made  a  choice.  The  assistant 
took  her  measure,  and  it  was  arranged  that  Bertha 
should  call  in  a  week's  time  to  be  fitted.  Frau 
Rupius  came  out  from  the  adjoining  room  and  rec- 
ommended that  particular  care  should  be  given  to 
her  friend's  order. 

It  seemed  to  Bertha  that  everybody  was  looking 
at  her  in  a  rather  disparaging,  almost  compassionate 
manner,  and,  on  looking  at  herself  in  the  large  pier 
glass  she  suddenly  perceived  that  she  was  very  taste- 
lessly dressed.  What  on  earth  had  put  it  into  her 
head  to  attire  herself  on  this  occasion  in  the  provin- 
cial Sunday-best,  instead  of  in  one  of  the  simple 
plain  dresses  she  usually  wore?  She  grew  crimson 
with  shame.  She  had  on  a  black  and  white  striped 
foulard  costume,  which  was  three  years  out  of  date, 
so  far  as  its  cut  was  concerned,  and  a  bright-col- 
oured hat,  trimmed  with  roses  and  turned  up  at  an 
extravagant  angle  in  front,  which  seemed  to  weigh 
heavily  upon  her  dainty  figure  and  made  her  appear 
almost  ridiculous. 

Then,  as  if  her  own  conviction  needed  further 
confirmation  by  some  word  of  consolation,  Frau 
Rupius  said,  as  they  went  down  the  stairs : 

"You  are  looking  lovely!" 

They  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"What  shall  be  done  now?"  asked  Frau  Rupius. 
"What  do  you  propose?" 

"Will  you  then  ...  I  ...  I  mea».  .  .  .** 


BERTHA  GARLAN  49 

Bertha  was  quite  frightened;  she  felt  as  though 
she  was  being  turned  adrift. 

Frau  Rupius  looked  at  her  with  kindly  com- 
miseration. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "that  you  are  going  to  pay  a 
visit  to  your  cousin  now,  are  you  not?  I  suppose 
that  you  will  be  asked  to  stay  to  dinner." 

"Agatha  will  be  sure  to  invite  me  to  dine  with 
her." 

"I  will  accompany  you  as  far  as  your  cousin's, 
if  you  would  like  me  to ;  then  I  will  go  to  my  broth- 
er and,  if  possible,  I  will  call  for  you  at  three  in 
the  afternoon." 

Together  they  walked  through  the  most  crowded 
streets  of  the  central  part  of  the  town  and  looked  at 
the  shop  windows.  At  first  Bertha  found  the  din 
somewhat  confusing;  afterwards,  however,  she 
found  it  more  pleasant  than  otherwise.  She  gazed 
at  the  passers-by  and  took  great  pleasure  in  watching 
the  well-groomed  men  and  smartly-attired  ladies. 
Almost  all  the  people  seemed  to  be  wearing  new 
clothes,  and  it  seemed  to  her  they  all  looked  much 
happier  than  the  people  at  home. 

Presently  she  stopped  before  the  window  of  a 
picture-dealer's  shop  and  immediately  her  eyes  fell 
on  a  familiar  portrait ;  it  was  the  same  one  of  Emil 
Lindbach  as  had  appeared  in  the  illustrated  paper. 
Bertha  was  as  delighted  as  if  she  had  met  an  ac- 
quaintance. 

"I  know  that  man,"  she  said  to  Frau  Rupius. 


so  BERTHA  GARLAN 

"Whom?" 

"That  man  there" — she  pointed  with  her  finger 
at  the  photograph — "what  do  you  think?  I  used 
to  attend  the  conservatoire  at  the  same  time  he  did !" 

"Really  ?"  said  Frau  Rupius. 

Bertha  looked  at  her  and  observed  that  she  had 
not  paid  the  slightest  attention  to  the  portrait,  but 
was  thinking  of  something  else.  Bertha,  however, 
was  glad  of  that,  for  it  seemed  to  her  that  there 
had  been  too  much  warmth  lurking  in  her  voice. 

All  at  once  a  gentle  thrill  of  pride  stirred  within 
her  at  the  thought  that  the  man  whose  portrait  hung 
there  in  the  shop  window  had  been  in  love  with  her 
in  the  days  of  his  youth,  and  had  kissed  her.  She 
walked  on  with  a  sensation  of  inward  contentment. 
After  a  short  time  they  reached  her  cousin's  house 
on  the  Riemerstrasse. 

"So  it's  settled  then,"  she  said ;  "you  will  call  for 
me  at  three  o'clock,  won't  you?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Frau  Rupius ;  "that  is  to  say — but 
if  I  should  be  a  little  late,  do  not  on  any  account 
wait  for  me  at  your  cousin's  any  longer  than  you 
want  to.  In  any  case,  this  much  is  settled :  we  will 
both  be  at  the  railway  station  at  seven  o'clock  this 
evening.     Good-bye  for  the  present." 

She  shook  hands  with  Bertha  and  hurried  away. 

Bertha  gazed  after  her  in  surprise.  Once  more 
she  felt  forlorn,  just  as  she  had  done  in  the  train 
when  Frau  Rupius  had  read  the  novel. 

Then  she  went  up  the  two  flights  of  stairs.    She 


BERTHA  GARLAN  51 

had  not  sent  her  cousin  word  as  to  her  visit,  and  she 
was  a  little  afraid  that  her  arrival  might  be  some- 
what inopportune.  She  had  not  seen  Agatha  for 
many  years,  and  they  had  exchanged  letters  only  at 
very  rare  intervals. 

Agatha  received  her  without  either  surprise  or 
cordiality,  as  though  it  was  only  the  day  before  that 
they  had  seen  each  other  for  the  last  time.  A  smile 
had  been  playing  around  Bertha's  lips — the  smile  of 
those  who  think  that  they  are  about  to  give  some 
one  else  a  surprise — she  repressed  it  immediately. 

"Well,  you  are  not  a  very  frequent  visitor,  I  must 
say!"  said  Agatha,  "and  you  never  let  us  have  a 
word  from  you." 

"But,  Agatha,  you  know  it  was  your  turn  to  write ; 
you  have  been  owing  me  a  letter  these  last  three 
months." 

"Really!"  replied  Agatha.  "Well,  you'll  have  to 
excuse  me;  you  can  imagine  what  a  lot  of  work 
three  children  mean.  Did  I  write  and  tell  you  that 
Gcorg  goes  to  school  now?" 

Agatha  took  her  cousin  into  the  nursery,  where 
Georg  and  his  two  little  sisters  were  just  having 
their  dinner  given  them  by  the  nursery-governess. 
Bertha  asked  them  a  few  questions,  but  the  chil- 
dren were  very  shy,  and  the  younger  girl  actually 
began  to  cry. 

"Do  beg  Aunt  Bertha  to  bring  Fritz  with  her 
next  time  she  comes,"  said  Agatha  to  Georg  at 
length. 


Si  BERTHA  GARIAN 

It  struck  Bertha  how  greatly  her  cousin  had  aged 
during  the  last  few  years.  Indeed,  when  she  bent 
down  to  the  children  Agatha  appeared  almost  like 
an  old  woman;  and  yet  she  was  only  a  year  older 
than  Bertha,  as  the  latter  knew. 

By  the  time  they  had  returned  to  the  dining-room 
they  had  already  told  each  other  all  that  they  had 
to  say,  and  when  Agatha  invited  Bertha  to  stay  to 
dinner,  it  seemed  that  she  spoke  only  for  the  mere 
sake  of  making  some  remark.  Bertha  accepted  the 
invitation,  nevertheless,  and  her  cousin  went  into 
the  kitchen  to  give  some  orders. 

Bertha  gazed  around  the  room,  which  was  fur- 
nished economically  and  in  bad  taste.  It  was  very 
dark,  for  the  street  was  extremely  narrow.  She 
took  up  an  album  which  was  lying  on  the  table.  She 
foimd  hardly  any  but  familiar  faces  in  it.  At  the 
very  beginning  were  the  portraits  of  Agatha's 
parents,  who  had  died  long  ago ;  then  came  those  of 
her  own  parents  and  of  her  brothers,  of  whom  she 
scarcely  ever  heard ;  portraits  of  friends  whom  they 
both  had  known  in  earlier  days,  and  of  whom  she 
now  knew  hardly  anything;  and,  finally,  there  was 
a  photograph,  the  existence  of  which  she  had  long 
forgotten.  It  was  one  of  herself  and  Agatha  to- 
gether, and  had  been  taken  when  they  were  quite 
young  girls.  In  those  days  they  had  been  very  much 
alike  in  appearance,  and  had  been  great  friends. 
Bertha  could  remember  many  of  the  confidential 


BERTHA  GARLAN  S3 

chats  which  they  had  had  together  in  the  days  of 
their  girlhood. 

And  that  lovely  creature  there  with  the  looped 
plaits  was  now  almost  an  old  woman!  And  what 
of  herself?  What  reason  had  she,  then,  for  still 
looking  upon  herself  as  a  young  woman?  Did  she 
not,  perhaps,  appear  to  others  as  old  as  Agatha  had 
seemed  to  her  ?  She  resolved  that,  in  the  afternoon, 
she  would  take  notice  of  the  glances  which  passers- 
by  bestowed  upon  her.  It  would  be  terrible  if  she 
really  did  look  as  old  as  her  cousin!  No,  the  idea 
was  utterly  ridiculous !  She  called  to  mind  how  her 
nephew  Richard  always  called  her  his  "pretty  aunt," 
how  Klingemann  had  walked  to  and  fro  outside  her 
window  the  other  evening — and  even  the  recollec- 
tion of  her  brother-in-law's  attentions  reassured  her. 
And,  when  she  looked  in  the  mirror  which  was  hang- 
ing opposite  to  her,  she  saw  two  bright  eyes  gazing 
at  her  from  a  smooth,  fresh  face — ^they  were  her 
face  and  her  eyes. 

When  Agatha  came  into  the  room  again  Bertha 
began  to  talk  of  the  far-away  years  of  their  child- 
hood, but  it  seemed  that  Agatha  had  forgotten  all 
about  those  early  days,  as  though  marriage,  mother- 
hood and  week-day  cares  had  obliterated  both  youth 
and  its  memories.  When  Bertha  went  on  to  speak 
of  a  students'  dance  they  had  both  attended,  of  the 
young  men  who  had  courted  Agatha,  and  of  a  bou- 
quet which  some  unknown  lover  had  once  sent  her. 


54  BERTHA  GARLAN 

Agatha  at  first  smiled  rather  absent-mindedly,  then 
she  looked  at  Bertha  and  said : 

"Just  fancy  you  still  remembering  all  those  foolish 
things !" 

Agatha's  husband  came  home  from  his  Govern- 
ment office.  He  had  grown  very  g^ey  since  Bertha 
had  last  seen  him.  At  first  sight  he  did  not  appear 
to  recognize  Bertha,  then  he  mistook  her  for  an- 
other lady,  and  excused  himself  by  remarking  that 
he  had  a  very  bad  memory  for  faces.  At  dinner  he 
affected  to  be  smart,  he  inquired  in  a  certain  superior 
way  about  the  affairs  of  the  little  town,  and  won- 
dered, jestingly,  whether  Bertha  was  not  thinking 
of  marrying  again.  Agatha  also  took  part  in  this 
bantering,  although,  at  the  same  time,  she  occasion- 
ally glanced  reprovfngly  at  her  husband,  who  was 
trying  to  give  the  conversation  a  frivolous  turn. 

Bertha  felt  ill  at  ease.  Later  on  she  gathered 
from  some  words  of  Agatha's  husband  that  they 
were  expecting  another  addition  to  their  family. 
Usually  Bertha  felt  sympathy  for  women  in  such 
circumstances,  but  in  this  case  the  news  created  an 
almost  unpleasant  impression  upon  her.  Moreover 
there  was  not  a  trace  of  love  to  be  discerned  in  the 
tone  of  the  husband's  voice  when  he  referred  to  it, 
but  rather  a  kind  of  foolish  pride  on  the  score  of 
an  accomplished  duty.  He  spoke  of  the  matter  as 
though  it  was  a  special  act  of  kindness  on  his  part 
that,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  was  a  busy  man,  and 
Agatha  was  no  longer  beautiful,  he  condescended  to 


BERTHA  GARLAN  55 

spend  his  time  at  home.  Bertha  had  an  impression 
that  she  was  being  mixed  up  in  some  sordid  affair 
which  did  not  concern  her  in  the  least.  She  was  glad 
when,  as  soon  as  he  had  finished  his  dinner,  the  hus- 
band went  off — it  was  his  custom,  "his  only  vice," 
as  he  said  with  a  smile,  to  play  billiards  at  the 
restaurant  for  an  hour  after  dinner. 

Bertha  and  Agatha  were  left  together. 

"Yes,"  said  Agatha,  "I've  got  that  to  look  for- 
ward to  again." 

Thereupon  she  began,  in  a  cold,  businesslike  way, 
to  talk  about  her  previous  confinements,  with  a  can- 
dour and  lack  of  modesty  which  seemed  all  the  more 
remarkable  because  they  had  become  such  strangers. 
While  Agatha  was  continuing  the  relation  of  her 
experiences,  however,  the  thought  suddenly  passed 
through  Bertha's  mind  that  it  must  be  glorious  to 
have  a  child  by  a  husband  whom  one  loved. 

She  ceased  to  pay  attention  to  her  cousin's  un- 
pleasant talk;  and  her  thoughts  were  only  occupied 
by  the  infinite  yearning  for  motherhood  which  had 
often  come  over  her  when  she  was  quite  a  young 
girl,  and  she  called  to  mind  an  occasion  when  that 
yearning  had  been  more  keen  than  it  had  ever  been, 
cither  before  or  after.  This  had  happened  one  eve- 
ning when  Emil  Lindbach  had  accompanied  her 
home  from  the  conservatoire,  her  hand  clasped  in 
his.  She  still  remembered  how  her  head  had  begun 
to  swim,  and  that  at  one  moment  she  had  under- 
stood what  the  phrase  meant  which  she  had  some- 


56  BERTHA  GARLAN 

times  read  in  novels :  "He  could  have  done  with  he? 
just  as  he  liked." 

Then  she  noticed  that  it  had  grown  quite  silent 
in  the  room,  and  that  Agatha  was  leaning  back  in 
the  comer  of  the  sofa,  apparently  asleep.  It  was 
three  by  the  clock.  How  tiresome  it  was  that  Frau 
Rupius  had  not  yet  arrived!  Bertha  went  to  the 
window  and  looked  out  into  the  street.  Then  she 
turned  towards  Agatha,  who  had  again  opened  her 
eyes.  Bertha  quickly  tried  to  begin  a  fresh  conver- 
sation, and  told  her  about  the  new  costume  which 
she  had  ordered  in  the  forenoon,  but  Agatha  was 
too  sleepy  even  to  answer.  Bertha  had  no  wish  to 
put  her  cousin  out,  and  took  her  departure.  She 
decided  to  wait  for  Frau  Rupius  in  the  street. 
Agatha  seemed  very  pleased  when  Bertha  got  ready 
to  go.  She  became  more  cordial  than  she  had  been 
at  any  time  during  her  cousin's  visit,  and  said  at  the 
door,  as  if  struck  by  some  brilliant  idea: 

"How  the  time  does  pass !  I  do  hope  you'll  come 
and  see  us  again  soon." 

Bertha,  as  she  stood  before  the  door  of  the  house, 
realized  that  she  was  waiting  for  Frau  Rupius  in 
vain.  There  was  no  doubt  that  it  had  been  the  lat- 
ter's  intention  from  the  beginning  to  spend  the  after- 
noon without  her.  Of  course,  it  did  not  necessarily 
follow  that  there  was  an3rthing  wicked  in  it;  as  a 
matter  of  fact  there  was  nothing  wicked  in  it,  but 
it  hurt  Bertha  to  think  that  Anna  had  so  little  trust 
in  her. 


BERTHA  GARLAN  $7 

She  walked  along  with  no  fixed  purpose.  She  had 
still  more  than  three  hours  to  while  away  before  she 
was  to  be  at  the  station.  At  first,  she  took  a  walk 
in  the  inner  town,  which  she  had  passed  through  in 
the  morning.  It  was  really  a  pleasant  thing  to  wan- 
der about  unobserved  like  this,  as  a  stranger  in  the 
crowd.  It  was  long  since  she  had  experienced  that 
pleasure.  Some  of  the  men  who  passed  her  glanced 
at  her  with  interest,  and  more  than  one,  indeed, 
stopped  to  gaze  after  her.  She  regretted  that  she 
was  dressed  to  so  little  advantage,  and  rejoiced  at 
the  prospect  of  obtaining  soon  the  beautiful  costume 
she  had  ordered  from  the  Viennese  dressmaker. 
She  would  have  liked  to  find  some  one  following 
her. 

Suddenly  the  thought  passed  through  her  mind: 
would  Emil  Lindbach  recognize  her  if  she  were  to 
meet  him?  What  a  question!  Such  things  never 
happened,  of  course.  No,  she  was  quite  sure  that 
she  could  wander  about  Vienna  the  whole  day  long 
without  ever  meeting  him.  How  long  was  it  since 
she  had  seen  him?  Seven — eight  years.  .  .  .  Yes, 
the  last  time  she  had  met  him  was  two  years  before 
her  marriage.  She  had  been  with  her  parents  one 
warm  summer  evening  in  the  Schweitzerhaus  on  the 
Prater;  he  had  gone  by  with  a  friend  and  had 
stopped  a  few  minutes  at  their  table.  Ah,  and  now 
she  remembered  also  that  amongst  the  company  at 
their  table  there  had  been  the  young  doctor  who  was 
courting  her.     She  had  forgotten  what  Emil  had 


S8  BERTHA  GARLAN 

said  on  that  occasion,  but  she  remembered  that  he 
had  held  his  hat  in  his  hand  during  the  whole  time 
he  was  standing  before  her,  which  had  afforded  her 
inexpressible  delight.  Would  he  do  the  same  now, 
she  thought  to  herself,  if  she  were  to  meet  him? 

Where  was  he  living  now,  she  wondered.  In 
the  old  days  he  had  a  room  on  the  Weiden,  near 
St.  Paul's  Church.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  had  pointed  out  the 
window  as  they  passed  one  day,  and  had  ventured, 
as  they  did  so,  to  make  a  certain  remark — she  had 
forgotten  the  exact  words,  but  there  was  no  doubt 
that  they  had  been  to  the  effect  that  he  and  she  ought 
to  be  in  that  room  together.  She  had  rebuked  him 
very  severely  for  saying  such  a  thing;  she  had  even 
gone  the  length  of  telling  him  that  if  that  was  the 
sort  of  girl  he  thought  she  was,  all  was  over  between 
them.  And,  in  fact,  he  had  never  spoken  another 
word  on  the  subject. 

Would  she  recognize  the  window  again?  Would 
she  find  it?  It  was  all  the  same  to  her,  of  course, 
whether  she  went  for  a  walk  in  this  direction  or 
that.  She  hurried  towards  the  Weiden  as  though 
she  had  suddenly  found  an  object  for  her  walk.  She 
was  amazed  at  the  complete  change  which  had  come 
over  the  neighbourhood.  When  she  looked  down 
from  the  Elizabeth  Bridge  she  saw  walls  that  rose 
from  the  bed  of  the  Wien,  half  finished  tracks,  little 
trucks  moving  to  and  fro,  and  busy  workmen.  Soon 
she  reached  St.  Paul's  Church  by  the  same  road  as 
she  had  so  often  followed  in  the  old  days.     But 


BERTHA  GARLAN  59 

then  she  came  to  a  standstill ;  she  was  absolutely  at 
a  loss  to  remember  where  Emil  had  lived — whether 
she  had  to  turn  to  the  right  or  to  the  left.  It  was 
strange  how  completely  it  had  escaped  her  memory. 
She  walked  slowly  back  as  far  as  the  Conservatoire, 
then  she  stood  still.  Above  her  were  the  windows 
from  which  she  had  so  often  gazed  upon  the  dome 
of  St.  Charles'  Church,  and  longingly  awaited  the 
end  of  the  lesson  so  that  she  might  meet  Emil.  How 
great  had  been  her  love  for  him,  indeed;  and  how 
strange  it  was  that  it  should  have  died  so  com- 
pletely ! 

And  now,  when  she  had  returned  to  these  scenes, 
she  was  a  widow,  had  been  so  for  years,  and  had  a 
child  at  home  who  was  growing  up.  If  she  had 
died,  Emil  would  never  have  heard  of  it,  or  perhaps 
not  until  years  afterwards.  Her  eyes  fell  on  a  large 
placard  fixed  on  the  entrance  gates  of  the  Con- 
servatoire. It  was  an  announcement  of  the  concert 
at  which  he  was  going  to  play,  and  there  was  his 
name  appearing  among  a  number  of  other  great 
ones,  many  of  which  she  had  long  since  admired 
with  gentle  awe. 

"BRAHMS  VIOLIN  CONCERTO— EMIL 

LINDBACH.  VIOLINIST  TO  THE 

COURT  OF  BAVARIA." 

"Violinist  to  the  Court  of  Bavaria!" — she  had 
never  heard  anything  about  that  before. 


6o  BERTHA  GARLAN 

Gazing  up  at  his  name,  which  stood  out  in  glit- 
tering letters,  it  seemed  to  her  as  though  the  next 
moment  Emil  himself  might  come  out  through  the 
gate,  his  violin  case  in  his  hand,  a  cigarette  between 
his  lips.  Of  a  sudden  it  all  seemed  so  near,  and 
nearer  still  when  all  at  once  from  the  windows  above 
came  floating  down  the  long-drawn  notes  of  a  violin, 
just  as  she  had  so  often  heard  in  the  old  dzys. 

She  thought  she  would  like  to  come  to  Vienna 
for  that  concert — yes,  even  if  she  should  be  obliged 
to  spend  the  night  at  an  hotel !  And  she  would  take 
a  seat  right  in  front  and  see  him  quite  close  at  hand. 
She  wondered  whether  he,  in  his  turn,  would  see 
her,  and,  if  so,  whether  he  would  recognize  her. 
She  remained  standing  before  the  yellow  placard, 
wholly  absorbed  in  thought,  until  she  felt  that  some 
young  people  coming  out  of  the  Conservatoire  were 
staring  at  her,  and  then  she  realized  that  she  had 
been  smiling  to  herself  the  whole  time,  as  if  lost  in 
a  pleasant  dream. 

She  proceeded  to  walk  on.  The  district  around 
the  town-park  had  also  changed,  and,  when  she 
sought  the  places  where  she  and  Emil  had  often  been 
for  walks  together,  she  found  that  they  had  quite 
.  disappeared.  Trees  had  been  felled,  boardings 
barred  the  way,  the  ground  had  been  dug  up,  and 
in  vain  she  tried  to  find  the  seat  where  she  and  Emil 
had  exchanged  words  of  love,  the  tone  of  which  she 
remembered  so  well  without  being  able  to  recall  the 
actual  phrases. 


BERTHA  GARLAN  6i 

Presently  she  reached  the  trim  well-kept  part  of 
the  park,  which  was  full  of  people.  But  she  had  a 
sensation  that  many  were  looking  at  her,  and  that 
some  ladies  were  laughing  at  her.  And  once  more 
she  felt  that  she  was  looking  very  countrified.  She 
was  vexed  at  being  embarrassed,  and  thought  of  the 
time  when,  as  a  pretty  young  girl,  she  had  walked, 
proud  and  unconcerned,  along  these  very  avenues. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  fallen  off  so  much 
since  then,  and  become  so  pitiable.  Her  idea  of  sit- 
ting in  the  front  row  of  the  concert  hall  appeared 
presumptuous,  almost  unfeasible.  It  seemed  also 
highly  improbable  now  that  Emil  Lindbach  would 
recognize  her;  indeed,  it  struck  her  as  almost  im- 
possible that  he  should  remember  her  existence. 
What  a  number  of  experiences  he.  must  have  had ! 
How  many  women  and  girls  might  well  have  loved 
him — and  in  a  manner  quite  different  from  her  own ! 

And  whilst  she  continued  her  way,  walking,  now 
along  the  less  frequented  avenues  and  at  length  out 
of  the  park  upon  the  Ringstrasse  again,  she  drew  a 
mental  picture  of  the  beloved  of  her  youth  figuring 
in  all  manner  of  adventures,  in  which  confused  recol- 
lections of  events  depicted  in  the  novels  she  had 
read  and  indistinctly  formed  ideas  of  his  profes- 
sional tours  were  strangely  intermingled.  She  imag- 
ined him  in  Venice  with  a  Russian  princess  in  a 
gondola ;  then  in  her  mind's  eye  she  saw  him  at  the 
court  of  the  King  of  Bavaria,  where  duchesses  lis- 
tened to  his  playing,  and  fell  in  love  with  him;  then 


62  BERTHA  GARLAN 

in  the  boudoir  of  an  opera  singer ;  then  at  a  fancy- 
dress  ball  in  Spain,  with  crowds  of  alluring  mas- 
queraders  about  him.  The  further  he  seemed  to 
soar  away,  unapproachable  and  enviable,  the  more 
miserable  she  felt  herself  to  be,  and  all  at  once  it 
seemed  utterly  inconceivable  that  she  had  so  lightly 
surrendered  her  own  hopes  of  an  artistic  career  and 
given  up  her  lover,  in  order  to  lead  a  sunless  exist- 
ence, and  to  be  lost  in  the  crowd.  A  shudder  seemed 
to  seize  her  as  she  recalled  that  she  was  nothing  but 
the  widow  of  an  insignificant  man,  that  she  lived 
in  a  provincial  town,  that  she  earned  her  living  by 
means  of  music  lessons,  and  that  she  saw  old  age 
slowly  approaching.  Never  had  there  fallen  upon 
her  way  so  much  as  a  single  ray  of  the  brilliance 
which  shone  upon  the  road  his  footsteps  would  tread 
so  long  as  he  lived.  And  again  the  same  shudder 
ran  through  her  at  the  thought  that  she  had  always 
been  content  with  her  lot,  and  that,  without  hope 
and  indeed,  without  yearning,  she  had  passed  her 
whole  existence  in  a  gloom,  which,  at  that  moment, 
seemed  inexplicable. 

She  reached  the  Aspernbriicke  without  in  the 
least  giving  heed  to  where  her  footsteps  were  tak- 
ing her.  She  wished  to  cross  the  street  at  this  point, 
but  had  to  wait  while  a  great  number  of  carriages 
drove  by.  Most  of  them  were  occupied  by  gentle- 
men, many  of  whom  carried  field-glasses.  She  knew 
that  they  were  returning  from  the  races  at  the 
Prater. 


BERTHA  GARLAN  63' 

There  came  an  elegant  equipage  in  which  were 
seated  a  young  man  and  a  girl,  the  latter  dressed 
in  a  white  spring  costume.  Immediately  behind  was 
a  carriage  containing  two  strikingly  dressed  ladies. 
Bertha  gazed  long  after  them,  and  noticed  that  one 
of  the  ladies  turned  round,  and  that  the  object  of 
her  attention  was  the  carriage  which  followed  imme- 
diately behind,  and  in  which  sat  a  young  and  very 
handsome  man  in  a  long  grey  overcoat.  Bertha 
was  conscious  of  something  very  painful — ^uneasi- 
ness and  annoyance  at  one  and  the  same  time.  She 
would  have  liked  to  be  the  lady  whom  the  young 
man  followed;  she  would  have  liked  to  be  beautiful, 
young,  independent,  and,  Heaven  knows,  she  would 
have  liked  to  be  any  woman  who  could  do  as  she 
wanted,  and  could  turn  round  after  men  who  pleased 
her. 

And  at  that  moment  she  realized,  quite  dis- 
tinctly, that  Frau  Rupius  was  now  in  the  company 
of  somebody  whom  she  loved.  Indeed  why 
shouldn't  she?  Of  course,  so  long  as  she  stayed  in 
Vienna,  she  was  free  and  mistress  of  her  own  time 
— besides,  she  was  a  very  pretty  woman,  and  was 
wearing  a  fragrant  violet  costume.  On  her  lips 
there  hovered  a  smile  such  as  only  comes  to  those 
who  are  happy — and  Frau  Rupius  was  tmhappy  at 
home.  All  at  once.  Bertha  had  a  vision  of  Herr 
Rupius  sitting  in  his  room,  looking  at  the  engrav- 
ings. But  on  that  day,  surely,  he  was  not  doing  so ; 
no,  he  was  trembling  for  his  wife,  consumed  with  an 


64  BERTHA  GARLAN 

immense  fear  that  some  one  yonder  in  the  great  city 
would  take  her  away  from  him,  that  she  would  never 
return,  and  that  he  would  be  left  all  alone  with  his 
sorrow.  And  Bertha  suddenly  felt  a  thrill  of  com- 
passion for  him,  such  as  she  had  never  experienced 
before.  Indeed,  she  would  have  liked  to  be  with 
him,  to  comfort  and  to  reassure  him. 

She  felt  a  touch  on  her  arm.  She  started  and 
looked  up.  A  young  man  was  standing  beside  her 
and  gazing  at  her  with  an  impudent  leer.  She  stared 
at  him,  full  in  the  face,  still  quite  absent-mindedly ; 
then  he  said  with  a  laugh : 

"Well?" 

She  was  frightened,  and  almost  ran  across  the 
street,  quickly  passing  in  front  of  a  carriage.  She 
was  ashamed  of  her  previous  desire  to  be  the  lady 
in  the  carriage  she  had  seen  coming  from  the  Prater. 
It  seemed  as  though  the  man's  insolence  had  been 
her  punishment.  No,  no,  she  was  a  respectable 
woman ;  in  the  depth  of  her  soul  she  had  an  aversion 
to  everything  that  savoured  of  the  insolent.  .  .  . 
No,  she  could  no  longer  stay  in  Vienna,  where 
women  were  exposed  to  such  things !  A  longing  for 
the  peace  of  her  home  came  over  her,  and  she  re- 
joiced in  the  prospect  of  meeting  her  little  boy  again, 
as  in  something  extraordinarily  beautiful. 

What  time  was  it,  though?  Heavens,  a  quarter 
of  seven !  She  would  have  to  take  a  carriage ;  there 
was  no  question  about  that  now,  indeed!     Frau 


BERTHA  GARLAN  65 

Rupius  had,  of  course,  paid  for  the  carriage  in  the 
morning,  and  so  the  one  which  she  was  now  going  to 
take  would  only  cost  her  half,  so  to  speak.  She 
took  her  seat  in  an  open  cab,  leaned  back  in  the 
comer,  in  almost  the  same  aristocratic  manner  as 
that  of  the  lady  she  had  seen  in  the  white  frock. 
People  gazed  after  her.  She  knew  that  she  was  now 
looking  young  and  pretty.  Moreover,  she  was  feel- 
ing quite  safe,  nothing  could  happen  to  her.  She 
took  an  indescribable  pleasure  in  the  swift  motion 
of  the  cab  with  its  rubber-tyred  wheels.  She  thought 
how  splendid  it  would  be  if  on  the  occasion  of  her 
next  visit  she  were  to  drive  through  the  town,  wear- 
ing her  new  costume  and  the  small  straw  hat  which 
made  her  look  so  young. 

She  was  glad  that  Frau  Rupius  was  standing  in 
the  entrance  to  the  station  and  saw  her  arrive.  But 
she  betrayed  no  sign  of  pride,  and  acted  as  thcxigh 
it  was  quite  the  usual  thing  for  her  to  drive  up  to 
the  station  in  a  cab. 

"We  have  still  ten  minutes  to  spare,"  said  Frau 
Rupius.  "Are  you  very  angry  with  me  for  having 
kept  you  waiting?  Just  fancy,  my  brother  was  giv- 
ing a  grand  children's  party  to-day,  and  the  little 
ones  simply  wouldn't  let  me  go.  It  occurred  to  me 
too  late  that  I  might  really  have  called  for  you ;  the 
children  would  have  amused  you  so  much.  I  have 
told  my  brother  that,  next  time,  I  will  bring  you 
and  your  boy  with  me." 

Bertha  felt  heartily  ashamed  of  herself.    How  she 


66  BERTHA  GARLAN 

had  wronged  this  woman  again!  She  could  only 
press  her  hand  and  say : 

"Thank  you,  you  are  very  kind !" 

They  went  on .  to  the  platform  and  entered  an 
empty  compartment,  Frau  Rupius  had  a  small  bag 
of  cherries  in  her  hand,  and  she  ate  them  slowly, 
one  after  another,  throwing  the  stones  out  of  the 
window.  When  the  train  began  to  move  out  of  the 
station  she  leaned  back  and  closed  her  eyes.  Bertha 
looked  out  of  the  window ;  she  felt  very  tired  after 
so  much  walking,  and  a  slight  uneasiness  arose 
within  her;  she  might  have  spent  the  day  differently, 
more  quietly  and  enjoyably.  Her  chilly  reception 
and  the  tedious  dinner  at  her  cousin's  came  to  her 
mind.  After  all,  it  was  a  great  pity  that  she  no 
longer  had  any  acquaintances  in  Vienna.  She  had 
wandered  like  a  stranger  about  the  town  in  which 
she  had  lived  twenty-six  years.  Why?  And  why 
had  she  not  made  the  carriage  pull  up  in  the  morn- 
ing, when  she  saw  the  figure  that  seemed  to  have 
a  resemblance  to  Emil  Lindbach?  True,  she  would 
not  have  been  able  to  run  or  call  after  him — but  if  it 
had  been  really  he,  if  he  had  recognized  her  and 
been  pleased  to  see  her  again?  They  might  have 
walked  about  together,  might  have  told  each  other 
all  that  had  happened  during  the  long  time  that  had 
passed  since  they  had  last  known  anything  about 
one  another ;  they  might  have  gone  to  a  fashionable 
restaurant  and  had  dinner;  some  would  naturally 
have  recognized  him,  and  she  would  have  heard  quite 


BERTHA  GARLAN  67 

distinctly  people  discussing  the  question  as  to  who 
"she"  might  really  be.  She  was  looking  beautiful, 
too ;  the  new  costume  was  already  finished ;  and  the 
waiters  served  her  with  great  politeness,  especially 
a  small  youth  who  brought  the  wine — ^but  he  was 
really  her  nephew,  who  had,  of  course,  become  a 
waiter  in  that  restaurant  instead  of  a  student.  Sud- 
denly Herr  and  Frau  Martin  entered  the  dining- 
hall ;  they  were  holding  one  another  in  such  a  tender 
embrace  as  if  they  were  the  only  people  there.  Then 
Emil  rose  to  his  feet,  took  up  the  violin  bow  which 
was  lying  beside  him,  and  raised  it  with  a  command- 
ing gesture,  whereupon  the  waiter  turned  Herr  and 
Frau  Martin  out  of  the  room.  Bertha  could  not  help 
laughing  at  the  incident,  laughing  much  too  loudly 
indeed,  for  by  this  time  she  had  quite  forgotten  how 
to  behave  in  a  fashionable  restaurant.  But  then  it 
was  not  a  fashionable  restaurant  at  all ;  it  was  only 
the  coffee  room  at  the  "Red  Apple,"  and  the  military 
band  was  playing  somewhere  out  of  sight.  That,  be 
it  known,  was  a  clever  invention  on  the  part  of  Herr 
Rupius,  that  military  bands  could  play  without  being 
seen.  Now,  however,  it  was  her  turn  that  was 
immediately  to  follow.  Yonder  was  the  piano — 
but,  of  course,  she  had  long  since  completely  for- 
gotten how  to  play ;  she  would  run  away  rather  than 
be  forced  to  play.  And  all  at  once  she  was  at  the 
railway  station,  where  Frau  Rupius  was  already 
waiting  for  her.  "It  is  high  time  you  came,"  she 
said.     She  placed  in  Bertha's  hand  a  large  book, 


68  BERTHA  GARLAN 

which,  by  the  way,  was  her  ticket.  Frau  Rupius, 
however,  was  not  going  to  take  the  train;  she  sat 
down,  ate  cherries  and  spat  out  the  stones  at  the 
stationmaster,  who  took  a  huge  deHght  in  the  pro- 
ceedings. Bertha  entered  the  compartment.  Thank 
God,  Herr  KHngemann  was  already  there!  He 
made  a  sign  to  her  with  his  screwed-up  eyes,  and 
asked  her  if  she  knew  whose  funeral  it  was.  She 
saw  that  a  hearse  was  standing  on  the  other  line. 
Then  she  remembered  that  the  captain  with  whom 
the  tobacconist's  wife  had  deceived  Herr  KHnge- 
mann was  dead — of  course,  it  was  the  day  of  the 
concert  at  the  "Red  Apple."  Suddenly  Herr  KHnge- 
mann blew  on  her  eyes,  and  laughed  in  a  rumbling 
way. 

Bertha  opened  her  eyes — ^at  that  moment  a  train 
was  rushing  past  the  window.  She  shook  herself. 
What  a  confused  dream !  And  hadn't  it  begun  quite 
nicely  ?  She  tried  to  remember.  Yes,  Emil  played  a 
part  in  it  .  .  .  but  she  could  not  recollect  what  part. 

The  dusk  of  evening  slowly  fell.  The  train  sped 
on  its  way  along  by  the  Danube.  Frau  Rupius  slept 
and  smiled.  Perhaps  she  was  only  pretending  to  be 
asleep.  Bertha  was  again  seized  with  a  slight  suspi- 
cion, and  she  felt  rising  within  her  a  sensation  of 
envy  at  the  unknown  and  mysterious  experiences 
which  Frau  Rupius  had  had.  She,  too,  would  gladly 
have  experienced  something.  She  wished  that  some- 
one was  sitting  beside  her  now,  his  arm  pressed 
against  hers — she  would  fain  have  felt  once  more 


BERTHA  GARLAN  69 

that  sensation  that  had  thrilled  her  on  that  occasion 
when  she  had  stood  with  Emil  on  the  bank  of  the 
Wien,  and  when  she  had  almost  been  on  the  point 
of  losing  her  senses  and  had  yearned  for  a  child. 
.  .  .  Ah,  why  was  she  so  poor,  so  lonely,  so  much  in 
obscurity?  Gladly  would  she  have  implored  the 
lover  of  her  youth: 

"Kiss  me  but  once  again  just  as  you  used  to  do, 
I  want  to  be  happy!" 

It  was  dark ;  Bertha  looked  out  into  the  night. 

She  determined  that  very  night  before  she  went 
to  bed  to  fetch  from  the  attic  the  little  case  in  which 
she  kept  the  letters  of  her  parents  and  of  Emil.  She 
longed  to  be  home  again.  She  felt  as  though  a 
question  had  been  wakened  within  her  soul,  and  that 
the  answer  awaited  her  at  home. 


IV 


When,  late  in  the  evening,  Bertha  entered  her 
room,  the  idea  which  she  had  taken  into  her  head 
of  going  up  to  the  attic  at  once  and  fetching  down 
the  case  with  the  letters  seemed  to  her  to  be  almost 
venturesome.  She  was  afraid  that  some  one  in  the 
house  might  observe  her  on  her  nocturnal  pilgrim- 
age, and  might  take  her  for  mad.  She  could,  of 
course,  go  up  the  next  morning  quite  conveniently 
and  without  causing  any  stir ;  and  so  she  fell  asleep, 
feeling  like  a  child  who  has  been  promised  an  outing 
into  the  country  on  the  following  day. 

She  had  much  to  do  the  next  forenoon;  her 
domestic  duties  and  piano  lessons  occupied  the  whole 
of  the  time.  She  had  to  give  her  sister-in-law  an 
account  of  her  visit  to  Vienna.  Her  story  was  that 
in  the  afternoon  she  had  gone  for  a  walk  with  her 
cousin,  and  the  impression  was  conveyed  that  she 
had  made  an  excuse  to  Frau  Rupius  at  the  request 
of  Agatha. 

It  was  not  until  the  afternoon  that  she  went  up 
to  the  attic  and  brought  down  the  dusty  travelling- 
case,  which  was  lying  beside  a  trunk  and  a  couple 
of  boxes — the  whole  collection  covered  with  an  old 
and  torn  piece  of  red-flowered  coffee-cloth.  She  re- 
ny%ibered  that  her  object  on  the  last  occasion  on 

70 


BERTHA  GARLAN  71 

which  she  had  opened  the  case  had  been  to  put  away 
the  papers  which  her  parents  had  left  behind.  On 
her  return  to  her  room  she  opened  the  case  and  per- 
ceived lying  on  top  of  the  other  contents  a  number 
of  letters  from  her  brothers  and  other  letters,  with 
the  handwriting  of  which  she  was  not  familiar; 
then  she  found  a  neat  little  bundle  containing  the 
few  letters  which  her  parents  had  addressed  to  her ; 
these  were  followed  by  two  books  of  her  mother's 
household  accounts,  a  little  copybook  dating  back  to 
her  own  schooldays  and  containing  entries  of  time- 
tables and  exercises,  a  few  programmes  of  the  dances 
which  she  had  attended  when  a  young  girl,  and, 
finally,  Emil  Lindbach's  letters,  which  were  wrapped 
up  in  blue  tissue  paper,  torn  here  and  there.  And 
now  she  was  able  to  fix  the  very  day  on  which  she 
had  last  held  those  letters  in  her  hand,  although  she 
had  not  read  them  on  that  occasion.  It  was  when 
her  father  had  been  lying  ill  for  some  time  and, 
for  whole  days,  she  had  not  once  gone  outside  the 
door. 

She  laid  the  bundle  aside.  She  wanted,  first  of 
all,  to  see  all  the  other  things  which  had  been  stored 
in  the  case,  and  concerning  which  she  was  consumed 
with  curiosity.  A  number  of  letters  lay  in  a  loose 
heap  at  the  bottom  of  the  case,  some  with  their 
envelopes  and  others  without.  She  cast  her  eye  over 
them  at  random.  There  were  letters  from  old 
friends,  a  few  from  her  cousin,  and  here  was  one 
from  the  doctor  who  had  courted  her  in  the  old 


72  BERTHA  GARLAN 

days.  In  it  he  asked  her  to  reserve  for  him  the  first 
waltz  at  the  medical  students'  dance.  Here — what 
was  it?  Why,  it  was  that  anonymous  letter  which 
some  one  had  addressed  to  her  at  the  Conservatoire. 
She  picked  it  up  and  read : 

"My  Dear  Fraulein, 

"Yesterday  I  again  had  the  good  fortune  to  have 
an  opportunity  of  admiring  you  on  your  daily  walk ; 
I  do  not  know  whether  I  had  also  the  good  fortune 
to  be  observed  by  you." 

No,  he  had  not  had  that  good  fortune.  Then 
followed  three  pages  of  enthusiastic  admiration,  and 
not  a  single  wish,  not  a  single  bold  word.  She 
had,  moreover,  never  heard  anything  more  of  the 
writer. 

Here  was  a  letter  signed  by  two  initials,  "M.  G." 
That  was  the  impudent  fellow  who  had  once  spoken 
to  her  in  the  street,  and  who  in  this  letter  made 
proposals — wait  a  minute,  what  were  they?  Ah, 
here  was  the  passage  which  had  sent  the  hot  blood 
mounting  to  her  brow  when  she  had  first  read  it : 

"Since  I  have  seen  you,  and  since  you  have  looked 
on  me  with  a  glance  so  stem  and  yet  seemingly  so 
full  of  promise,  I  have  had  but  one  dream,  but  one 
yearning — that  I  might  kiss  those  eyes!" 

Of  course,  she  had  not  answered  the  letter;  she 


BERTHA  GARLAN  73 

was  in  love  with  Emil  at  the  time.  Indeed,  she  had 
even  thought  of  showing  him  the  letter,  but  was 
restrained  by  the  fear  of  rousing  his  jealousy.  Emil 
had  never  learned  anything  of  "M.  G." 

And  that  piece  of  soft  ribbon  that  now  fell  into 
her  hands?  ...  A  cravat  .  .  .  but  she  had  quite 
forgotten  whose  it  was,  and  why  she  had  kept  it. 

Here  again  was  a  little  dance  album  in  which 
she  had  written  the  names  of  her  partners.  She 
tried  to  call  the  young  men  to  mind,  but  in  vain. 
Though,  by  the  way,  it  was  at  that  very  dance  that 
she  had  met  that  man  who  had  said  such  passionate 
words  to  her  as  she  had  never  heard  from  any  other. 
It  seemed  as  though  he  suddenly  emerged  a  victor 
from  among  the  many  shadows  that  hovered  around 
her.  It  must  have  happened  during  the  time  when 
she  and  Emil  had  been  meeting  each  other  less  fre- 
quently. How  strange  it  was  ...  or  had  it  only 
been  a  dream  ?  This  passionate  admirer  had  clasped 
her  closely  in  his  arms  during  the  dance — and  she 
had  not  offered  the  slightest  resistance.  She  had 
felt  his  lips  in  her  hair,  and  it  had  been  incredibly 
pleasant.  .  .  .  Well,  and  then  ? — ^she  had  never  seen 
him  again. 

It  suddenly  seemed  to  her  that,  after  all,  in  those 
days  she  had  had  many  and  strange  experiences,  and 
she  was  lost  in  amazement  at  the  way  in  which  all 
these  memories  had  slumbered  so  long  in  the  travel- 
ling-case and  in  her  soul.  .  .  .  But  no,  they  had  not 
slumbered ;  she  had  thought  of  all  these  things  many 


74  BERTHA  GARLAN 

a  time:  of  the  men  who  had  courted  her,  of  the 
anonymous  letter,  of  her  passionate  partner  at  the 
dance,  of  the  walks  with  Emil — but  only  as  if  they 
had  been  merely  such  things  as  go  to  constitute  the 
past,  the  youth  which  is  allotted  to  every  young  girl, 
and  from  which  she  emerges  to  lead  the  placid  life 
of  a  woman.  On  the  present  occasion,  however,  it 
seemed  to  Bertha  as  if  these  recollections  were,  so 
to  speak,  unredeemed  promises,  as  if  in  those  ex- 
periences of  distant  days  there  lay  destinies  which 
had  not  been  fulfilled;  nay,  more,  as  if  a  kind  of 
deception  had  long  been  practised  upon  her,  from 
the  very  day  on  which  she  had  been  married  until 
the  present  moment;  as  if  she  had  discovered  it  all 
too  late;  and  here  she  was,  unable  to  lift  a  finger 
to  alter  her  destiny. 

Yet  why  should  it  seem  so?  .  .  .  She  thought  of 
all  these  futile  things,  and  there  beside  her,  wrapped 
up  in  tissue  paper,  still  lay  the  treasure,  for  the  sake 
of  which  alone  she  had  rummaged  in  the  case — the 
letters  of  the  only  man  she  had  loved,  the  letters 
written  in  the  days  when  she  had  been  happy.  How 
many  women  might  there  be  now  who  envied  her 
because  that  very  man  had  once  loved  her — loved 
her  with  a  different,  better,  chaster  love  than  that 
which  he  had  given  any  of  the  women  who  had  fol- 
lowed her  in  his  affections.  She  felt  herself  most 
bitterly  deceived  that  she,  who  could  have  been  his 
wife  if  ...  if  ..  .  her  thoughts  broke  off. 

Hurriedly,  as  though  seeking  to  rid  her  mind  of 


BERTHA  GARLAN  75 

doubt,  or  rather,  indeed,  of  fear,  she  tore  off  the 
tissue  paper  and  seized  the  letters.  And  she  read — 
read  them  one  after  another.  Long  letters,  short 
letters;  brief,  hasty  notes,  like:  "To-morrow  eve- 
ning, darling,  at  seven  o'clock!"  or  "Dearest,  just 
one  kiss  ere  I  go  to  sleep !"  letters  that  covered  many 
pages,  written  during  the  walking  tours  which  he 
and  his  fellow  students  had  taken  in  the  summer; 
letters  written  in  the  evening,  in  which  he  had  felt 
constrained  to  impart  to  her  his  impressions  of  a 
concert  immediately  on  returning  home;  endless 
pages  in  which  he  unfolded  his  plans  for  the  future ; 
how  they  would  travel  together  through  Spain  and 
America,  famous  and  happy  .  .  .  she  read  them  all, 
one  after  another,  as  though  tortured  by  a  quench- 
less thirst.  She  read  from  the  very  first,  which  had 
accompanied  a  few  pieces  of  music,  to  the  last,  which 
was  dated  two  and  a  half  years  later,  and  contained 
nothing  more  than  a  greeting  from  Salzburg. 

When  she  came  to  an  end  she  let  her  hands  fall 
into  her  lap  and  gazed  fixedly  at  the  sheets  lying 
about.  Why  had  that  been  the  last  letter?  How 
had  their  friendship  come  to  an  end?  How  could 
it  have  come  to  an  end?  How  had  it  been  possible 
that  that  great  love  had  died  away?  There  had 
never  been  any  actual  rupture  between  Emil  and 
herself ;  they  had  never  come  to  any  definite  under- 
standing that  all  was  over  between  them,  and  yet 
their  acquaintanceship  had  ended  at  some  time  or 
other — when?  .  .  .  She  could  not  tell,  because  at 


76  BERTHA  GARLAN 

the  time  when  he  had  written  that  card  to  her  from 
Salzburg  she  had  still  been  in  love  with  him.  She 
had,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  met  him  in  the  autumn — 
indeed,  during  the  winter  of  the  same  year  every- 
thing had  seemed  once  more  to  blossom  forth.  She 
remembered  certain  walks  they  had  taken  over  the 
crunching  snow,  arm  in  arm,  beside  St.  Charles' 
Church — but  when  was  it  that  they  had  taken  the 
Ust  of  these  walks?  They  had,  to  be  sure,  never 
taken  farewell  of  each  other.  .  .  .  She  could  not 
understand  it. 

How  was  it  that  she  had  been  able  so  easily  to 
renounce  a  happiness  which  it  might  yet  have  been 
within  her  power  to  retain?  How  had  it  come 
about  that  she  had  ceased  to  love  him?  Had  the 
dullness  of  the  daily  routine  of  her  home  life,  which 
weighed  so  heavily  upon  her  spirits  ever  since  she 
had  left  the  Conservatoire,  lulled  her  feelings  to 
sleep  just  as  it  had  blunted  the  edge  of  her  ambi- 
tions? Had  the  querulous  remarks  of  her  parents 
on  the  subject  of  her  friendship  with  the  youthful 
violinist — which  had  seemed  likely  to  lead  to  nothing 
— acted  on  her  with  such  sobering  effect  ? 

Then  she  recalled  to  mind  that  even  at  a  later 
date,  when  some  months  had  elapsed  since  she  had 
last  seen  him,  he  had  called  at  her  parents*  house, 
and  had  kissed  her  in  the  back  room.  Yes,  that 
had  been  the  last  time  of  all.  And  then  she  remem- 
bered further  that  on  that  occasion  she  had  noticed 
that  his  relation  towards  women  had  changed ;  that 


BERTHA  GARLAN  77 

he  must  have  had  experiences  of  which  she  could 
know  nothing — but  the  discovery  had  not  caused  her 
any  pain. 

She  asked  herself  how  it  all  would  have  turned 
out  if  in  those  days  she  had  not  been  so  virtuous, 
if  she  had  taken  life  as  easily  as  some  of  the  other 
girls  ?  She  called  to  mind  a  girl  at  the  Conservatoire 
with  whom  she  had  ceased  to  associate  on  finding 
that  her  friend  had  an  intrigue  with  a  dramatic  stu- 
dent. She  remembered  again  the  suggestive  words 
which  Emil  had  spoken  as  they  were  walking  to- 
gether past  his  window,  and  the  yearning  that  had 
come  over  her  as  they  stood  by  the  bank  of  the 
Wien.  It  seemed  inconceivable  that  those  words 
had  not  aflfected  her  more  keenly  at  the  moment, 
that  that  yearning  had  been  awakened  within  her 
only  once,  and  then  only  for  so  short  a  time.  With 
a  kind  of  perplexed  amazement  she  thought  of  that 
period  of  placid  purity  and  then,  with  a  sudden 
agonized  feeling  of  shame  which  drove  the  blood 
to  her  temples,  of  the  cold  readiness  with  which  she 
had  given  herself  afterwards  to  a  man  whom  she 
had  never  loved.  The  consciousness  that  whatever 
happiness  she  had  tasted  in  the  course  of  her  married 
life  had  been  gained  in  the  arms  of  the  husband 
she  had  not  loved  made  her  shudder  with  horror, 
for  the  first  time,  in  its  utter  wretchedness.  Had 
that,  then,  been  life  such  as  her  thoughts  had  de- 
picted to  her,  had  that  been  the  mystic  happiness 
f uch  as  she  had  yearned  f or  ?  .  .  .  And  a  dull  feel- 


78  BERTHA  GARLAN 

ing  of  resentment  against  everything  and  everybody, 
against  the  living  and  the  dead,  began  to  smoulder 
within  her  bosom.  She  was  angry  with  her  dead 
husband  and  with  her  dead  father  and  mother;  she 
was  indignant  with  the  people  amongst  whom  she 
was  now  living,  whose  eyes  were  always  upon  her 
so  that  she  dared  not  allow  herself  any  freedom; 
she  was  hurt  with  Frau  Rupius,  who  had  not  turned 
out  to  be  such  a  friend  that  Bertha  could  rely  on 
her  for  support;  she  hated  Klingemann  because, 
ugly  and  repulsive  as  he  was,  he  desired  to  make  her 
his  wife ;  and  finally  she  was  violently  enraged  with 
the  man  she  had  loved  in  the  days  of  her  girlhood, 
because  he  had  not  been  bolder,  because  he  had 
withheld  from  her  the  ultimate  happiness,  and  be- 
cause he  had  bequeathed  her  nothing  but  memories 
full  of  fragrance,  yet  full  of  torment.  And  there 
she  was,  sitting  in  her  lonely  room  amongst  the 
faded  mementoes  of  a  youth  that  had  passed  im- 
profitably  and  f riendlessly ;  there  she  was,  on  the 
verge  of  the  time  when  there  would  be  no  more 
hopes  and  no  more  desires — ^life  had  slipped  through 
her  fingers,  and  she  was  thirty  and  poor. 
?.•  She  wrapped  up  the  letters  and  the  other  things, 
and  threw  them,  all  crumpled  as  they  were,  into  the 
case.  Then  she  closed  it  and  went  over  to  the 
window. 

Evening  was  at  hand.  A  gentle  breeze  was  blow- 
ing over  from  the  direction  of  the  vine-trellises.  Her 
eyes  swam  with  unwept  tears,  not  of  grief,  but  of 


BERTHA  GARLAN  79 

exasperation.  What  was  she  to  do  ?  She,  who  had, 
without  fear  and  without  hope,  seen  the  days,  nights, 
months,  years  extending  into  the  future,  shuddered 
at  the  prospect  of  the  emptiness  of  the  evening  which 
lay  before  her. 

"•  It  was  the  hour  at  which  she  usually  returned 
home  from  her  walk.  On  that  day  she  had-  sent  the 
nursemaid  out  with  Fritz — ^^not  so  much  as  once  did 
she  yearn  for  her  boy.  Indeed,  for  one  moment  there 
even  fell  on  her  child  a  ray  of  the  anger  which 
she  felt  against  all  mankind  and  against  her  fate. 
And,  in  her  vast  discontent,  she  was  seized  with  a 
feeling  of  envy  against  many  people  who,  at  ordi- 
nary times,  seemed  to  her  anything  but  enviable. 
She  envied  Frau  Martin  because  of  the  tender  affec- 
tion of  her  husband;  the  tobacconist's  wife  because 
she  was  loved  by  Herr  Klingemann  and  the  captain ; 
her  sister-in-law,  because  she  was  already  old ;  Elly, 
because  she  was  still  young;  she  envied  the  servant, 
who  was  sitting  on  a  plank  over  there  with  a  sol- 
dier, and  whom  she  heard  laughing.  She  could 
not  endure  being  at  home  any  longer.  She  took 
up  her  straw  hat  and  sunshade  and  hurried  into  the 
street.  There  she  felt  somewhat  better.  In  her 
room  she  had  been  unhappy;  in  the  street  she  was 
no  more  than  out  of  humour. 

In  the  main  thoroughfare  she  met  Herr  and  Frau 
Mahlmann,  to  whose  children  she  gave  music  les- 
sons. Frau  Mahlmann  was  already  aware  that 
Bertha  had  ordered  a  costume  from  a  dressmaker  in 


8o  BERTHA  GARLAN 

Vienna  on  the  previous  day,  and  she  began  to  dis- 
cuss the  matter  with  gjeat  weightiness.  Later  on, 
Bertha  met  her  brother-in-law,  who  came  towards 
her  from  the  chestnut  avenue. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "so  you  were  in  Vienna  yester- 
day !  Tell  me,  what  did  you  do  with  yourself  there  ? 
Did  you  have  any  adventures?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Bertha,  looking  at 
him  in  great  alarm,  as  though  she  had  done  some- 
thing she  ought  not,  and  had  been  found  out. 

"What  ?  You  had  no  adventures  ?  But  you  were 
with  Frau  Rupius ;  all  the  men  must  surely  have  run 
after  you?" 

"What  on  earth  has  come  into  your  head  ?  Frau 
Rupius*  conduct  is  irreproachable!  She  is  one  of 
the  most  well-bred  ladies  I  know." 

"Quite  so,  quite  so!  I  am  not  saying  a  word 
against  Frau  Rupius  or  you." 

She  looked  him  in  the  face.  His  eyes  were  gleam- 
ing, as  they  often  did  when  he  had  had  a  little  too 
much  to  drink.  She  could  not  help  recalling  that 
somebody  had  once  foretold  that  Herr  Garlan 
would  die  of  an  apoplectic  stroke, 

"I  must  pay  another  visit  to  Vienna  myself  one 
of  these  days,"  he  said.  "Why,  I  haven't  been  there 
since  Ash  Wednesday.  I  should  like  to  see  some  qf 
my  acquaintances  once  again.  The  next  time  you 
and  Frau  Rupius  go,  you  might  just  take  me  with 
you." 

"With  pleasure,"  answered  Bertha.    "I  shall  have 


BERTHA  GARLAN  8i 

to  go  again,  of  course,  before  long,  to  have  my  cos- 
tume tried  on." 

Garlan  laughed. 

"Yes,  and  you  can  take  me  with  you,  too,  when 
you  try  it  on." 

He  sidled  up  closer  to  her  than  was  necessary. 
It  was  a  way  he  had  always  to  squeeze  up  against 
her,  and,  moreover,  she  was  accustomed  to  his  jokes, 
but  on  the  present  occasion  she  thought  him  par- 
ticularly objectionable.  She  was  very  much  an- 
noyed that  he,  of  all  men,  always  spoke  of  Frau 
Rupius  in  such  a  suspicious  way. 

"Let  us  sit  down,"  said  Herr  Garlan;  "if  you 
don't  mind." 

They  both  sat  down  on  a  seat.  Garlan  took  the 
newspaper  from  his  pocket. 

"Ah !"  said  Bertha  involuntarily. 

"Will  you  have  it?"  asked  Garlan. 

"Has  your  wife  read  it  yet?" 

"Tut,  tut !"  said  Garlan  disdainfully.  "Will  you 
have  it?" 

"If  you  can  spare  it." 

"For  you — with  pleasure.  But  we  might  just  as 
well  read  it  together." 

He  edged  closer  to  Bertha  and  opened  the  paper. 

Herr  and  Frau  Martin  came  along,  arm  in  arm, 
and  stopped  before  them. 

"Well,  so  you  are  back  again  from  the  momen- 
tous journey,"  said  Herr  Martin. 

"Ah,  yes,  you  were  in  Vienna,"  said  Frau  Martin, 


^  BERTHA  GARLAN 

nestling  against  her  husband.  "And  with  Frau 
Rupius,  too,"  she  added,  as  though  that  impHed  an 
aggravation  of  the  offence. 

Once  more  Bertha  had  to  g^ve  an  account  of  her 
new  costume.  She  told  them  all  about  it  in  a  some- 
what mechanical  manner,  indeed ;  but  she  felt,  none 
the  less,  that  it  was  long  since  she  had  been  such  an 
interesting  personage  as  she  was  now. 

Klingemann  went  by,  bowed  with  ironical  polite- 
ness, and  turned  round  to  Bertha  with  a  look  which 
seemed  to  express  his  sympathy  for  her  in  having 
to  be  friendly  with  such  people. 

It  seemed  to  Bertha  as  though  she  were  gifted 
that  day  with  the  ability  to  read  men's  glances. 

It  began  to  grow  dark.  They  set  off  together 
towards  the  town.  Bertha  suddenly  grew  uneasy 
at  not  having  met  her  boy.  She  walked  on  in  front 
with  Frau  Martin,  who  turned  the  conversation  on 
to  the  subject  of  Frau  Rupius.  She  badly  wanted 
to  find  out  whether  Bertha  had  observed  anything. 

"But  what  do  you  mean,  Frau  Martin  ?  I  accom- 
panied Frau  Rupius  to  her  brother's  house,  and 
called  for  her  there  on  my  way  back." 

"And  are  you  convinced  that  she  was  with  her 
brother  the  whole  time  ?" 

"I  really  don't  know  what  you  expect  Frau 
Rupius  to  do !    Where  would  she  have  been  then  ?" 

"Well,"  said  Frau  Martin;  "really,  you  are  an 
artless  creature,  I  must  say — or  are  you  only  put- 
ting on  ?    Do  you  quite  forget  then.  .  .  ." 


BERTHA  GARLAN  83 

Then  she  whispered  something  into  Bertha's  ear^ 
at  which  the  latter  grew  very  red.  She  had  never 
heard  such  an  expression  from  a  woman.  She  was 
indignant. 

"Frau  Martin,"  she  said,  "I  am  not  so  old  my- 
self either  and,  as  you  see,  it  is  quite  possible  to 
live  a  decent  life  in  such  circumstances." 

Frau  Martin  was  a  little  taken  aback. 

"Yes,  of  course!"  she  said.  "Yes,  of  course  1 
You  must,  I  dare  say,  think  that  I  am  a  little  over- 
nice  in  such  matters." 

Bertha  was  afraid  that  Frau  Martin  might  be 
about  to  give  her  some  further  and  more  intimate 
disclosures,  and  she  was  very  glad  to  find  that,  at 
that  moment,  they  had  reached  the  street  corner 
where  she  could  say  good-bye. 

"Bertha,  here's  your  paper!"  her  brother-in-law 
called  after  her. 

She  turned  round  quickly  and  took  the  paper. 
Then  she  hastened  home.  Fritz  had  returned  and 
was  waiting  for  her  at  the  window.  She  hurried 
up  to  him.  She  embraced  and  kissed  him  as  though 
she  had  not  seen  him  for  weeks.  She  felt  that  she 
was  completely  engrossed  with  love  for  her  boy,  a 
fact  which,  at  the  time,  filled  her  with  pride.  She 
listened  to  his  account  of  how  he  had  spent  the 
afternoon,  where  he  had  been,  and  with  whom  he 
had  played.  She  cut  up  his  supper  for  him,  un- 
dressed him,  put  him  to  bed,  and  was  satisfied  with 
herself.    Her  state  of  mind  of  the  afternoon,  when 


84  BERTHA  GARLAN 

she  had  rummaged  among  the  old  letters,  had  cursed 
her  fate  and  had  even  envied  the  tobacconist's  wife, 
seemed  to  her,  at  the  thought  of  it,  as  an  attack  of 
fever.  She  ate  a  hearty  supper  and  went  to  bed 
early.  Before  falling  to  sleep,  however,  it  occurred 
to  her  that  she  would  like  to  read  the  paper.  She 
stretched  her  limbs,  shook  up  the  soft  bolster  so 
that  her  head  should  be  higher,  and  held  the  paper 
as  near  the  candle  as  possible. 

As  her  custom  was,  she  first  of  all  skimmed 
through  the  theatrical  and  art  news.  Even  the 
short  announcements,  as  well  as  the  local  reports, 
had  acquired  a  new  interest  for  her,  since  her  trip 
to  Vienna.  Her  eyelids  were  beginning  to  grow 
heavy  when  all  at  once  she  observed  the  name  of 
Emil  Lindbach  amongst  the  personal  news.  She 
opened  her  eyes  wide,  sat  up  in  bed  and  read  the 
paragraph. 

"Emil  Lindbach,  violinist  to  the  Court  of  Bavaria, 
whose  great  success  at  the  Spanish  Court  we  were 
recently  in  a  position  to  announce,  has  been  hon- 
oured by  the  Queen  of  Spain,  who  has  invested  him 
with  the  Order  of  the  Redeemer." 

A  smile  flitted  across  her  lips.  She  was  glad,  Emil 
Lindbach  had  obtained  the  Order  of  the  Redeemer. 
.  .  .  Yes.  .  .  .  the  man  whose  letters  she  had  been 
reading  that  very  day  .  .  .  the  man  who  had  tissed 
her — the  man  who  had  once  written  to  her  that  he 


BERTHA  GARLAN  &j 

would  never  adore  any  other  woman.  .  .  .  Yes, 
Emil — the  only  man  in  all  the  world  in  whom  she 
really  had  still  any  interest — except  her  boy,  of 
course.  She  felt  as  though  this  notice  in  the  paper 
was  intended  only  for  her,  as  though,  indeed,  Emil 
himself  had  selected  that  expedient,  so  as  to  estab- 
lish some  means  of  communication  with  her.  Had 
it  not  been  he,  after  all,  whose  back  she  had  seen  in 
the  distance  on  the  previous  day?  All  at  once  she 
seemed  to  be  quite  near  to  him;  still  smiling,  she 
whispered  to  herself :  "Herr  Emil  Lindbach,  violin- 
ist to  the  Court  of  Bavaria,  ...  I  congratulate 
you.  .  .  ." 

Her  lips  remained  half  open.  An  idea  had  sud- 
denly come  to  her.  She  got  up  quickly,  donned  her 
dressing-gown,  took  up  the  light  and  went  into  the 
adjoining  room.  She  sat  down  at  the  table  and 
wrote  the  following  letter  as  fluently  as  though  some 
one  were  standing  beside  her  and  dictating  it,  word 
for  word : 

"Dear  Emil, 

"I  have  just  read  in  the  newspaper  that  the  Queen 
of  Spain  has  honoured  you  by  investing  you  with 
the  Order  of  the  Redeemer.  I  do  not  know  whether 
you  still  remember  me" — she  smiled  as  she  wrote 
these  words — "but,  all  the  same,  I  will  not  let  this 
opportunity  slip  without  congratulating  you  upon 
your  many  successes,  of  which  I  so  often  have  the 
pleasure  of  reading.    I  am  living  most  contentedly 


S6  BERTHA  GARLAN 

in  the  little  town  where  fate  has  cast  mc;  I  am 
getting  on  very  well ! 

"A  few  lines  in  reply  would  make  me  very  happy. 
"Your  old  friend, 

"Bertha. 
"P.S. — Kind  regards  also  from  my  little  Fritz 
(five  years  old)." 

She  had  finished  the  letter.  For  a  moment  she 
asked  herself  whether  she  should  mention  that  she 
was  a  widow;  but  even  if  he  had  not  known  it  be- 
fore, it  was  quite  obvious  from  her  letter.  She  read 
it  over  and  nodded  contentedly.  She  wrote  the 
address. 

"Herr  Emil  Lindbach,  violinist  to  the  Court  of 
Bavaria,  Holder  of  the  Order  of  the  Re- 
deemer. .  .  ."  Should  she  write  all  that?  He  was 
certain  to  have  many  other  Orders  also.  .  .  . 
"Vienna.  .  .  ." 

But  where  was  he  living  at  present?  That,  how- 
ever, was  of  no  consequence  with  such  a  celebrated 
name.  Moreover  the  inaccuracy  in  the  address 
would  also  show  that  she  did  not  attach  so  very  much 
importance  to  it  all;  if  the  letter  reached  him — well, 
so  much  the  better.  It  was  also  a  way  of  putting 
fate  to  the  test.  .  .  .  Ah,  but  how  was  she  to  know 
for  a  certainty  that  the  letter  had  arrived  or  not? 
The  answer  might,  of  course,  quite  easily  fail  to 
reach  her  if.  .  .  .  No,  no,  certainly  not !  He  would 
be  sure  to  thank  her.    And  so,  to  bed. 


BERTHA  GARLAN  87 

She  held  the  letter  in  her  hand.  No,  she  could 
not  go  to  bed  now,  she  was  wide  awake  again.  And, 
moreover,  if  she  did  not  post  the  letter  until  next 
morning  it  would  not  go  before  the  midday  train, 
and  would  not  reach  Emil  before  the  day  after. 
That  was  an  interminably  long  time.  She  had  just 
spoken  to  him,  and  were  thirty-six  hours  to  be 
allowed  to  elapse  before  her  words  reached  his  ears  ? 
.  .  .  Supposing  she  did  not  wait,  but  went  to  the 
post  now  ?  .  .  .  no,  to  the  station  ?  Then  he  would 
have  the  letter  at  ten  o'clock  the  next  morning.  He 
was  certain  to  be  late  in  rising — the  letter  would  be 
brought  into  his  room  with  his  breakfast.  .  .  .  Yes, 
she  must  post  the  letter  at  once! 

Quickly  she  dressed  again.  She  hurried  down 
the  stairs — it  was  not  yet  late — she  hastened  along 
the  main  street  to  the  station,  put  the  letter  in  the 
yellow  box,  and  was  home  again. 

As  she  stood  in  her  room,  beside  the  tumbled  bed, 
and  she  saw  the  paper  lying  on  the  floor  and  the 
candle  flickering,  it  seemed  as  though  she  had  re- 
tamed  from  a  strange  adventure.  For  a  long  time 
she  remained  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  gazing 
through  the  window  into  the  bright,  starlit  night,  and 
her  soul  was  filled  with  vague  and  pleasurable  ex- 
pectations. 


"My  Dear  Bertha! 

"I  am  wholly  unable  to  tell  you  how  glad  I  was 
to  receive  your  letter.  Do  you  really  still  think  of 
me,  then?  How  curious  it  is  that  it  should  have 
been  an  Order,  of  all  things,  that  was  the  cause  of 
my  hearing  from  you  again!  Well,  at  all  events, 
an  Order  has  at  least  had  some  significance  for 
once  in  a  way !  Therefore,  I  heartily  thank  you  for 
your  congratulations.  But,  apart  from  all  that, 
don't  you  come  to  Vienna  sometimes?  It  is  not  so 
very  far,  after  all.  I  should  be  immensely  pleased 
to  see  you  again.  So  come  soon ! 
"With  all  my  heart, 

"Your  old 

"Emil." 

Bertha  was  sitting  at  breakfast,  Fritz  beside  her. 
He  was  chatting,  but  she  was  not  listening  to  him. 
The  letter  lay  before  her  on  the  table. 

It  seemed  miraculous.  Two  nights  and  a  day 
ago  she  had  posted  her  letter,  and  here  was  his 
reply  already.  Emil  had  not  allowed  a  day  to  pass, 
not  even  an  hour!  He  had  written  to  her  as  cor- 
dially as  if  they  had  only  parted  the  previous  day. 

She  looked  out  of  the  window.  What  a  splendid 
88 


BERTHA  GARLAN  89 

morning  it  was!  Outside  the  birds  were  singing, 
and  from  the  hills  came  floating  down  the  fragrance 
of  the  early  summer-tide. 

Bertha  read  the  letter  again  and  again.  Then  she 
took  Fritz,  lifted  him  up  and  kissed  him  to  her 
heart's  content.  It  was  long  since  she  had  been  so 
happy. 

While  she  was  dressing  she  turned  things  over  in 
her  mind.  It  was  Thursday;  on  Monday  she  had 
to  go  to  Vienna  again  to  try  on  the  costume.  That 
was  four  long  days,  just  the  same  space  of  time  as 
had  elapsed  since  she  had  dined  at  her  brother-in- 
law's — what  a  long  time  it  seemed  to  have  to  wait. 
No,  she  must  see  Emil  sooner  than  that.  She  could, 
of  course,  go  the  very  next  morning  and  remain  in 
Vienna  a  few  days.  But  what  excuse  could  she 
make  to  the  people  at  home?  .  .  .  Oh,  she  would 
be  sure  to  find  some  pretext.  It  was  more  impor- 
tant to  decide  in  what  way  she  should  answer  his 
letter  and  tell  him  where  she  would  meet  him.  .  .  . 
She  could  not  write  and  say :  **I  am  coming,  please 
let  me  know  where  I  can  see  you.  .  .  .**  Perhaps  he 
would  answer :  "Come  to  my  rooms.  .  .  ."  No,  no, 
no !  It  would  be  best  to  let  him  have  a  definite  state- 
ment of  fact.  She  would  write  to  the  effect  that 
she  was  going  to  Vienna  on  such  and  such  a  day 
and  was  to  be  found  at  such  and  such  a  place.  .  .  . 

Oh,  if  she  only  had  someone  with  whom  she  could 
talk  the  whole  thing  over!  .  .  .  She  thought  of 
Frau  Rupius — she  had  a  genuine  yearning  to  tell 


90  BERTHA  GARLAN 

her  everything.  At  the  same  time  she  had  an  idea 
that,  by  so  doing,  she  might  become  more  intimate 
with  her  and  might  win  her  esteem.  She  felt  that 
she  had  become  much  more  important  since  the  re- 
ceipt of  Emil's  letter.  Now  she  remarked,  too,  that 
she  had  been  very  much  afraid  that  Emil  might  quite 
possibly  have  changed  and  become  conceited,  affected 
and  spoiled — just  as  was  the  case  with  so  many 
celebrated  men.  But  there  was  not  the  slightest 
trace  of  such  things  in  the  letter ;  there  was  the  same 
quick,  heavy  writing,  the  same  warmth  of  tone,  as 
in  those  earlier  letters.  What  a  number  of  ex- 
periences he  might  well  have  had  since  she  had  last 
seen  him — well,  had  not  she  also  had  many  ex- 
periences, and  were  they  not  all  seemingly  oblit- 
erated ? 

Before  going  out  she  read  Emil's  letter  again. 
It  grew  more  like  a  living  voice;  she  heard  the 
cadence  of  the  words,  and  that  final  "Come  soon" 
seemed  to  call  her  with  tender  yearning.  She  stuck 
the  letter  into  her  bodice  and  remembered  how,  as 
a  girl,  she  had  often  done  the  same  with  his  notes, 
and  how  the  gentle  touch  had  sent  a  pleasant  thrill 
coursing  through  her. 

First  of  all,  she  went  to  the  Mahlmanns',  where 
she  gave  the  twins  their  music  lesson.  Very  often 
the  finger  exercises,  to  which  she  had  to  listen  there, 
were  positively  painful  to  her,  and  she  would  rap 
the  children  on  the  knuckles  when  they  struck  a 
false  note.    On  the  present  occasion,  however,  she 


BERTHA  GARLAN  91 

was  not  in  the  least  strict.  When  Frau  Mahlmann, 
fat  and  friendly  as  ever,  came  into  the  room  and 
inquired  whether  Bertha  was  satisfied,  the  latter 
praised  the  children  and  added,  as  though  suddenly 
inspired : 

"^'  "Now,  I  shall  be  able  to  give  them  a  few  days' 
holiday." 

"Holiday!  How  will  that  be,  then,  dear  Frau 
Garlan?"  .  'rrc.ni.jgf/  > 

"You  see,  Frau  Mahlmann,  I  have  no  choice  in 
the  matter.  What  do  you  think,  when  I  was  in 
Vienna  lately  my  cousin  begged  me  so  pressingly 
to  be  sure  to  come  and  spend  a  few  days  with 
her " 


**^  "Quite  so,  quite  so,"  said  Frau  Mahlmann. 

Bertha's  courage  kept  rising,  and  she  continued 
to  add  falsehood  to  falsehood,  taking  a  kind  of 
pleasure  in  her  own  boldness:  ^  ■'' 

"I  really  wanted  to  put  it  off  till  June.  But  this 
very  morning  I  had  a  letter  from  her,  saying  that 
her  husband  is  going  away  for  a  time,  and  she  is 
so  lonely,  and  just  now" — she  felt  the  letter  crackle, 
and  had  an  indescribable  desire  to  take  it  out;  but 
yet  restrained  herself — "and  I  think  I  shall  perhaps 
take  advantage  of  the  opportunity.  .  .  ." 

"Well,  to  tell  the  truth,"  said  Frau  Mahlmann, 
taking  Bertha  by  both  hands,  "if  I  had  a  cousin  in 
Vienna,  I  would  like  to  stay  with  her  a  week  every 
fortnight !" 

Bertha  beamed.     She  felt  as  though  an  invisible 


92  BERTHA  GARLAN 

hand  was  clearing  away  the  obstacles  which  lay  in 
her  path;  everything  was  going  so  well.  And,  in- 
deed, to  whom,  after  all,  was  she  accountable  for 
her  actions?  Suddenly,  however,  the  fear  flashed 
through  her  mind  that  her  brother-in-law  really  in- 
tended to  go  with  her  to  Vienna.  Everything  be- 
came entangled  again ;  dangers  cropped  up  and  sus- 
picion lurked  even  under  the  good-natured  smile  of 
Frau  Mahlmann.  .  .  . 

Ah,  she  must  on  no  account  fail  to  take  Frau 
Rupius  into  her  confidence.  Directly  the  lesson  was 
over  she  went  to  call  upon  her. 

It  was  not  until  she  had  found  Frau  Rupius  in  a 
white  morning  gown,  sitting  on  the  sofa,  and  had 
observed  the  surprised  glance  with  which  the  latter 
received  her,  that  it  struck  Bertha  that  there  was 
anything  strange  in  her  early  visit,  and  she  said  with 
affected  cheerfulness: 

"Good  morning!    I'm  early  to-day,  am  I  not?" 

Frau  Rupius  remained  serious.  She  had  not  the 
usual  smile  on  her  lips. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  see  you.  The  hour  make<  no 
difference  to  me." 

Then  she  threw  her  a  questioning  glance,  and 
Bertha  did  not  know  what  to  say.  She  was  an- 
noyed, too,  at  the  childish  embarrassment,  of  which 
she  could  not  rid  herself  in  the  presence  of  Frau 
Rupius. 

"I  wanted,"  she  said,  at  length,  "to  ask  you  how 
you  felt  after  our  trip." 


BERTHA  GARLAN  93 

"Quite  well,"  answered  Frau  Rupius,  rather  stiffly. 
But  all  at  once  her  features  changed,  and  she  added 
with  excessive  friendliness:  "Really,  it  was  my 
place  to  have  asked  you.  I  am  accustomed  to  those 
trips,  you  know." 

As  she  said  this  she  looked  through  the  window 
and  Bertha  mechanically  followed  her  gaze,  which 
wandered  over  to  the  other  side  of  the  market  square 
to  an  open  window  with  flowers  on  the  sill.  It  was 
quite  calm,  and  the  repose  of  a  summer  day 
shrouded  the  slumbering  town.  Bertha  would  have 
dearly  liked  to  sit  beside  Frau  Rupius  and  be  kissed 
upon  the  brow  by  her,  and  blessed ;  but  at  the  same 
time  she  had  a  feeling  of  compassion  towards  her. 
All  this  puzzled  her.  For  what  reason,  indeed,  had 
she  really  come?  And  what  should  she  say  to  her? 
.  .  .  "I'm  going  to-morrow  to  Vienna  to  sec  the  man 
who  used  to  be  in  love  with  me  when  I  was  a  g^rl  ?" 
...  In  what  way  did  all  that  concern  Frau  Rupius  ? 
Would  it  really  interest  her  in  the  very  slightest 
degree?  There  she  sat  as  if  surrounded  by  some- 
thing impenetrable;  it  was  impossible  to  approach 
her.  She  could  not  approach  her,  that  was  the  trou- 
ble. Of  course,  there  was  a  word  by  means  of 
which  it  was  possible  to  find  the  way  to  her  heart, 
only  Bertha  did  not  know  it. 

"Well,  how  is  your  little  boy?"  asked  Frau 
Rupius,  without  taking  her  eyes  off  the  flowers  in 
the  opposite  window. 


94  BERTHA  GARLAN 

"He  is  going  on  as  well  as  ever.  He  is  very  well- 
behaved,  and  is  a  marvellously  good  child!" 

The  last  word  she  uttered  with  an  intentional 
tenderness  as  though  Frau  Rupius  was  to  be  won 
over  by  that  means. 

"Yes,  yes,"  answered  the  latter,  her  tone  imply- 
ing that  she  knew  he  was  good,  and  had  not  asked 
about  that.  "Have  you  a  reliable  nursemaid?"  she 
added. 

Bertha  was  somewhat  astonished  at  the  question. 

"My  maid  has,  of  course,  many  other  things  to 
attend  to  besides  her  nurse's  duties,"  she  replied; 
"but  I  cannot  complain  of  her.  She  is  also  a  very 
good  cook." 

"It  must  be  a  great  happiness  to  have  such  a  boy," 
said  Frau  Rupius  very  drily,  after  a  short  interval 
of  silence. 

"It  is,  indeed,  my  only  happiness,"  said  Bertha, 
more  loudly  than  was  necessary. 

It  was  an  answer  which  she  had  often  made  be- 
fore, but  she  knew  that,  on  that  day,  she  was  not 
speaking  with  entire  sincerity.  She  felt  the  sheet 
of  paper  touch  her  skin,  and,  almost  with  alarm, 
she  realized  that  she  had  also  deemed  it  a  happiness 
to  have  received  that  letter.  At  the  same  time  it 
occurred  to  her  that  the  woman  sitting  opposite  her 
had  neither  a  chi4d  nor  even  the  prospect  of  having 
one,  and  Bertha  would  have  been  glad  to  take  back 
what  she  had  said.  Indeed,  she  was  on  the  point 
of  seeking  some  qualifying  word.    But,  as  if  Frau 


BERTHA  GARLAN  95 

Rupius  was  able  to  see  into  her  soul,  and  as  if 
in  her  presence  a  lie  was  impossible,  she  said  at 
once : 

"Your  only  happiness?  Say,  rather,  *a  great  hap- 
piness,' and  that  is  no  small  thing!  I  often  envy 
you  on  that  score,  although  I  really  think  that,  apart 
from  such  considerations,  life  in  itself  is  a  joy  to 
you." 

"Indeed,  my  life  is  so  lonely,  so.  .  .  .'* 

Anna  smiled, 
.    "Quite  so,  but  I  did  not  mean  that.     What  I 
meant  was  that  the  fact  that  the  sun  is  shining 
and  the  weather  is  now  so  fine  also  makes  you 
glad." 

"Oh  yes,  very  glad!"  replied  Bertha  assiduously. 
"My  frame  of  mind  is  generally  dependent  on  the 
weather.  During  that  thunderstorm  a  few  days  ago 
I  was  utterly  depressed,  and  then,  when  the  storm 
was  over " 

Frau  Rupius  interrupted  her. 

"That  is  the  case  with  every  one,  you  know." 

Bertha  grew  low-spirited.  She  felt  that  she  was 
not  clever  enough  for  Frau  Rupius ;  she  could  never 
do  any  more  than  follow  the  ordinary  lines  of  con- 
versation, like  the  other  women  of  her  acquaintance. 
It  seemed  as  though  Frau  Rupius  had  arranged  an 
examination  for  her,  which  she  had  not  passed, 
and,  all  at  once,  she  was  seized  with  a  great  appre- 
hension at  the  prospect  of  meeting  Emil  again. 
What  sort  of  a  figure  would  she  cut  in  his  presence  ? 


96  BERTHA  GARLAN 

How  shy  and  helpless  she  had  become  during  the 
six  years  of  her  narrow  existence  in  the  little  town ! 

Frau  Rupius  rose  to  her  feet.  The  white  morning 
gown  streamed  around  her;  she  looked  taller  and 
more  beautiful  than  usual,  and  Bertha  was  involun- 
tarily reminded  of  an  actress  she  had  seen  on  the 
stage  a  very  long  time  ago,  and  to  whom  at  that 
moment  Frau  Rupius  bore  a  remarkable  resem- 
blance. Bertha  said  to  herself :  If  I  were  only 
like  Frau  Rupius  I  am  sure  I  would  not  be  so  timid. 
At  the  same  time  it  struck  her  that  this  exquisitely 
lovely  woman  was  married  to  an  invalid — might  not 
the  gossips  be  right  then,  after  all  ?  But  here,  again, 
she  was  unable  to  pursue  further  her  train  of 
thought;  she  could  not  imagine  in  what  way  the 
gossips  could  be  right.  And  at  that  moment  it 
dawned  upon  her  mind  how  bitter  was  the  fate  to 
which  Frau  Rupius  was  condemned,  no  matter 
whether  she  now  bore  it  or  resisted  it. 

But,  as  if  Anna  had  again  read  Bertha's  thoughts, 
and  could  not  tolerate  that  the  latter  should  thus 
insinuate  herself  into  her  confidence,  the  uncanny 
gravity  of  her  face  relaxed  suddenly,  and  she  said 
in  an  innocent  tone : 

"Just  fancy,  my  husband  is  still  asleep.  He  has 
acquired  the  habit  of  remaining  awake  until  late 
at  night,  reading  and  looking  at  engravings,  and 
then  he  sleeps  on  until  midday.  As  for  that,  it  is 
quite  a  matter  of  habit;  when  I  used  to  live  in 
Vienna  I  was  incredibly  lazy  about  getting  up." 


BERTHA  GARLAN  97 

And  thereupon  she  began  to  chat  about  her  girl- 
hood, cheerfully,  and  with  a  confiding  manner  such 
as  Bertha  had  never  before  noticed  in  her.  She 
told  about  her  father,  who  had  been  an  officer  on 
the  Staff,  about  her  mother,  who  had  died  when  she 
was  quite  a  young  woman;  and  about  the  little 
house  in  the  garden  of  which  she  had  played  as  a 
child.  It  was  only  now  that  Bertha  learned  that 
Frau  Rupius  had  first  become  acquainted  with  her 
husband  when  he  was  just  a  boy ;  he  had  lived  with 
his  parents  in  the  adjoining  house,  and  had  fallen 
in  love  with  Anna  and  she  with  him,  while  they 
were  both  children.  To  Bertha  the  whole  period 
of  Frau  Rupius*  youth  appeared  as  if  radiant  with 
bright  sunbeams,  a  youth  replete  with  happiness, 
replete  with  hope;  and  it  seemed  to  her,  moreover, 
that  Frau  Rupius*  voice  assumed  a  fresher  tone  when 
she  went  on  to  relate  about  the  travels  which  she 
and  her  husband  had  undertaken  in  the  early  days 
of  their  married  life. 

Bertha  let  her  talk  and  hesitated  to  interrupt 
her  with  a  word,  as  though  she  were  a  somnambulist 
wandering  on  the  ridge  of  a  roof.  But  while  Frau 
Rupius  was  speaking  of  her  past,  a  period  through 
which  the  blessedness  of  being  loved  ever  beamed 
brightly  as  its  chiefest  glory,  Bertha*s  soul  began 
to  thrill  with  the  hope  of  a  happiness  for  herself 
siKh  as  she  had  not  yet  experienced.  And  while 
Frau  Rupius  was  telling  of  the  walking  tours 
through  Switzerland  and  the  Tyrol,  which  she  had 


98  BERTHA  GARLAN 

once  undertaken  with  her  husband,  Bertha  pictured 
herself  wandering  by  Emil's  side  on  similar  paths, 
and  she  was  filled  with  such  an  immense  yearning 
that  she  would  dearly  have  liked  at  once  to  get  up, 
go  to  Vienna,  seek  him  out,  fall  into  his  arms,  and 
at  last,  at  last  to  taste  those  delights  which  had 
hitherto  been  denied  her. 

Her  thoughts  wandered  so  far  that  she  did  not 
notice  that  Frau  Rupius  had  long  since  fallen  silent, 
and  was  sitting  on  the  sofa,  staring  at  the  flowers 
in  the  window  of  the  house  over  the  way.  The 
utter  stillness  brought  Bertha  back  to  reality;  the 
whole  room  seemed  to  her  to  be  filled  with  some 
mysterious  atmosphere,  in  which  the  past  and  the 
future  were  strangely  intermingled.  She  felt  that 
there  existed  an  incomprehensible  connexion  between 
herself  and  Frau  Rupius.  She  rose  to  her  feet, 
stretched  out  her  hand,  and,  as  if  it  were  quite  a 
matter  of  course,  the  two  ladies  kissed  each  other 
good-bye  like  a  couple  of  old  friends. 

On  reaching  the  door  Bertha  remarked : 

"I  am  going  to  Vienna  again  to-morrow  for  a 
few  days." 

She  smiled  as  she  spoke,  like  a  girl  about  to  be 
married. 

After  leaving  Frau  Rupius,  Bertha  went  to  her 
sister-in-law.  Her  nephew  was  already  sitting  at  the 
piano,  improvising  in  a  very  wild  manner.  He  pre- 
tended not  to  have  noticed  her  enter,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  practise  his  finger  exercises,  which  he 


BERTHA  GARLAN  99 

played  in  an  attitude  of  stiffness,  assumed  for  the 
occasion. 

"We  will  play  a  duet  to-day,"  said  Bertha,  en- 
deavouring to  find  the  volume  of  Schubert's 
marches. 

She  paid  not  the  least  attention  to  her  own  play- 
ing, and  hardly  noticed  how,  in  using  the  pedals, 
her  nephew  touched  her  feet. 

In  the  meantime  Elly  came  into  the  room  and 
kissed  her  aunt. 

"Ah,  just  so,  I  had  quite  forgotten  that!"  said 
Richard,  and,  whilst  continuing  to  play,  he  placed 
his  lips  close  to  Bertha's  cheek. 

Her  sister-in-law  came  in  with  her  bunch  of  keys 
rattling  and  a  deep  dejection  on  her  pale  and  indis- 
tinct features. 

"I  have  given  Brigitta  notice,"  she  said  in  a 
feeble  tone.    "I  couldn't  endure  it  any  longer." 

"Shall  I  get  you  a  maid  in  Vienna?"  asked 
Bertha  with  a  facility  which  even  surprised 
her. 

And  now  for  the  second  time  she  told  the  fiction 
which  she  had  invented  about  her  cousin's  invita- 
tion, with  even  greater  assurance  than  before,  and, 
moreover,  with  a  little  amplification  this  time. 
Along  with  the  secret  joy  which  she  found  in  the 
telling,  she  felt  her  courage  increasing  at  the  same 
time.  Even  the  possibility  of  being  joined  by  her 
brother-in-law  no  longer  alarmed  her.  She  felt,  too, 
that  she  had  an  advantage  over  him,  because  of  the 


100  BERTHA  GARLAN 

way  in  which  he  was  in  the  habit  of  sidling  up  to 
her. 

"How  long  are  you  thinking  of  staying  in  the 
town,  then?"  asked  her  sister-in-law. 

"Two  or  three  days ;  certainly  no  longer.  And  in 
any  case,  of  course,  I  should  have  had  to  go  on 
Monday — to  the  dressmaker." 

Richard  strummed  on  the  keys,  but  Elly  stood 
with  both  arms  resting  on  the  piano,  gazing  at  her 
aunt  with  a  look  almost  of  terror. 

"Whatever  is  the  matter  with  you?"  asked 
Bertha  involuntarily. 

"Why  do  you  ask  that?"  said  Elly. 

"You  are  looking  at  me,"  said  Bertha,  "as  queerly 
as  though — well,  as  though  you  did  not  like  the  idea 
of  missing  your  music  lessons  for  a  couple  of  days." 

"No,  it  is  not  that,"  replied  Elly,  smiling.  "But 
...  no,  I  can't  tell  you." 

"What  is  it,  though?"  asked  Bertha. 

"No,  please,  I  really  can't  tell  you." 

She  hugged  her  aunt,  almost  imploringly. 

"Elly,"  said  her  mother,  "I  cannot  permit  you  to 
have  any  secrets." 

She  sat  down  as  though  most  deeply  gprieved  and 
very  tired. 

"Well,  Elly,"  said  Bertha,  filled  with  a  vague 
fear,  "if  I  were  to  beg  you " 

"But  you  mustn't  laugh  at  me.  Aunt." 

"Certainly  not." 

"Well,  you  see,  Aunt,  I  was  so  frightened  when 


BERTHA  GARLAN  loi 

you  were  away  in  Vienna  that  last  time — I  know 
very  well  it  is  silly — but  it  is  because  .  .  .  because 
of  the  number  of  carriages  in  the  streets." 

Bertha  drew  a  deep  breath  as  of  relief,  and 
stroked  Elly's  cheeks. 

"I  will  be  sure  to  take  great  care.  You  can  be 
quite  easy  in  your  mind." 

Her  sister-in-law  shook  her  head. 

"I  am  afraid  that  Elly  will  turn  out  a  most  eccen- 
tric girl." 

Before  Bertha  left  the  house  she  arranged  with 
her  sister-in-law  that  she  would  come  back  to  sup- 
per, and  that  she  would  hand  over  Fritz  to  the  care 
of  her  relations  while  she  as  away  in  Vienna. 

After  dinner,  Bertha  sat  down  at  the  writing 
table,  read  over  Emil's  letter  a  few  more  times,  and 
made  a  rough  draft  of  her  reply. 

"My  Dear  Emil, 

"It  was  very  good  of  you  to  answer  me  so  soon. 
I  was  very  happ/* — she  crossed  out  "very  happy*' 
and  substituted  "very  glad" — "when  I  received  your 
dear  note.  How  much  has  changed  since  we  last 
saw  each  other!  You  have  become  a  famous  vir- 
tuoso since  then,  which  I,  for  my  part,  was  always 
quite  sure  that  you  would  be" — she  stopped  and 
struck  out  the  whole  sentence — "I  also  share  your 
desire  to  sec  me  soon  again" — no,  that  was  mere 
nonsense !  This  was  better :  "I  should  be  immensely 
delighted  to  have  an  opportunity  of  talking  to  you 


I02  BERTHA  GARLAN 

once  more." — Then  an  excellent  idea  occurred  to  her, 
and  she  wrote  with  great  zest :  "It  is  really  strange 
that  we  have  not  met  for  so  long,  for  I  come  to 
Vienna  quite  often;  for  instance,  I  shall  be  there 
this  week-end.  .  .  ."  Then  she  allowed  her  pen  to 
drop  and  fell  into  thought.  She  was  determined 
to  go  to  Vienna  the  next  afternoon,  to  put  up  at  an 
hotel,  and  to  sleep  there/  so  as  to  be  quite  fresh  the 
following  day,  and  to  breathe  the  air  of  Vienna 
for  a  few  hours  before  meeting  him.  The  next 
question  was  to  fix  a  meeting  place.  That  was  easily 
done.  "In  accordance  with  your  kind  wish  I  am 
writing  to  let  you  know  that  on  Saturday  morning 
at  eleven  o'clock.  ..."  No,  that  was  not  the  right 
thing!  It  was  so  businesslike,  and  yet  again  too 
eager — "if,"  she  wrote,  "you  would  really  care  to 
take  the  opportunity  of  seeing  your  old  friend  again, 
then  perhaps  you  will  not  consider  it  too  much 
trouble  to  go  to  the  Art  and  History  Museum  on 
Saturday  morning  at  eleven  o'clock.  I  will  be  in 
the  gallery  of  the  Dutch  School" — as  she  wrote  that 
she  seemed  to  herself  rather  impressive  and,  at  the 
same  time,  everything  of  a  suspicious  nature  seemed 
to  be  removed. 

She  read  over  the  draft.  It  appeared  to  her  rather 
dry,  but,  after  all,  it  contained  all  that  was  neces- 
sary, and  did  not  compromise  her  in  any  way. 
Whatever  else  was  to  happen  would  take  place  in 
the  Museum,  in  the  Dutch  gallery. 


BERTHA  GARLAN  103 

She  neatly  copied  out  the  draft,  signed  it,  placed 
it  in  an  envelope,  and  hurried  down  the  sunny 
street  to  post  the  letter  in  the  nearest  box.  On 
arriving  home  again  she  slipped  off  her  dress,  donned 
a  dressing-gown,  sat  down  on  the  sofa,  and  turned 
over  the  leaves  of  a  novel  by  Gerstacker,  which  she 
had  read  half  a  score  of  times  already.  But  she 
was  unable  to  take  in  a  word.  At  first,  she  at- 
tempted to  dismiss  from  her  mind  the  thoughts 
which  beset  her,  but  her  efforts  met  with  no  suc- 
cess. 

She  felt  ashamed  of  herself,  but  all  the  time  she 
kept  dreaming  that  she  was  in  Emil's  arms.  Why 
ever  did  such  dreams  come  to  her?  She  had  never, 
even  for  a  moment,  thought  of  such  a  thing!  No, 
.  .  .  she  would  not  think  of  it,  either  .  .  .  she  was 
not  that  sort  of  woman.  .  .  .  No,  she  could  not 
be  anyone's  mistress — and  even  on  this  occasion. 
.  .  .  Yes,  perhaps  if  she  were  to  go  to  Vienna  once 
more  and  again  .  .  .  and  again  .  .  .  yes,  much 
later — perhaps.  And  besides,  he  would  not  even 
so  much  as  dare  to  speak  of  such  a  thing,  or  even 
to  hint  at  it.  .  .  .  It  was,  however,  useless  to  reason 
like  this ;  she  could  no  longer  think  of  anything  else. 
Ever  more  importunate  came  her  dreams  and,  in  the 
end,  she  gave  up  the  struggle.  She  lolled  indolently 
in  the  corner  of  the  sofa,  allowed  the  book  to  slip 
from  her  fingers  and  lie  on  the  floor,  and  closed  her 
eyes. 

When  she  rose  to  her  feet  an  hour  later  a  whole 


104  BERTHA  GARLAN 

i 

night  seemed  to  have  passed,  and  the  visit  to  Frau 
Rupius  seemed,  in  particular,  to  be  far  distant. 
Again  she  wondered  at  this  confusion  of  time — in 
truth,  the  hours  appeared  to  be  longer  or  shorter 
just  as  they  chose. 

She  dressed  in  order  to  take  Fritz  for  a  walk. 
She  was  in  the  tired,  indifferent  mood  which  usu- 
ally came  over  her  after  an  unaccustomed  afternoon 
nap.  It  was  that  mood  in  which  it  is  scarcely  pos- 
sible to  collect  one's  thoughts  with  any  degree  of 
completeness,  and  in  which  the  usual  appears  strange, 
but  as  though  it  refers  to  some  one  else.  For  the 
first  time,  it  seemed  strange  to  Bertha  that  the  boy, 
whom  she  was  now  helping  into  his  coat,  was  her 
own  child,  whose  father  had  long  been  buried,  and 
for  whom  she  had  pndured  the  pangs  of  mother- 
hood. 

Something  within  her  urged  her  to  go  to  the 
cemetery  again  that  day.  She  had  not,  however, 
the  feeling  that  she  had  a  wrong  to  make  reparation 
for,  but  that  she  must  again  politely  visit  some  one 
to  whom  she  had  become  a  stranger  for  no  valid 
reason.  She  chose  the  way  through  the  chestnut 
avenue.  There  the  heat  was  particularly  oppressive 
that  day.  When  she  passed  out  into  the  sun  again 
a  gentle  breeze  was  blowing  and  the  foliage  of  the 
trees  in  the  cemetery  seemed  to  greet  her  with  a 
slight  bow.  As  "she  passed  through  the  cemetery 
gates  with  Fritz  the  breeze  came  towards  her,  cool, 
even  refreshing.    With  i^a  feeling  of  gentle,  almost 


BERTHA  GARLAN  105 

sweet,  weariness,  she  walked  through  the  broad 
centre  avenue,  allowed  Fritz  to  run  on  in  front,  and 
did  not  mind  when  he  disappeared  from  her  sight 
for  a  few  seconds  behind  a  tombstone,  though  at 
other  times  she  would  not  have  allowed  such  be- 
haviour. She  remained  standing  before  her  hus- 
band's grave.  She  did  not,  however,  look  down  at 
the  flower-bed,  as  was  her  general  custom,  but  gazed 
past  the  tombstone  and  away  over  the  wall  into  the 
blue  sky.  She  felt  no  tears  in  her  eyes ;  she  felt  no 
emotion,  no  dread ;  she  did  not  even  realize  that  she 
had  walked  over  the  dead,  and  that  there  beneath 
her  feet  he,  who  had  once  held  her  in  his  arms,  had 
crumbled  into  dust. 

Suddenly  she  heard  behind  her  hurried  footsteps 
on  the  gravel,  such  as  she  was  not  generally  accus- 
tomed to  hear  in  the  cemetery.  Almost  shocked,  she 
turned  round.  Klingemann  was  standing  before 
her,  in  an  attitude  of  greeting,  holding  in  his  hand 
his  straw  hat,  which  was  fixed  by  a  ribbon  to  his 
coat  button.    He  bowed  deeply  to  Bertha. 

"What  a  strange  thing  to  see  you  here!"  she 
said. 

"Not  at  all,  my  dear  lady,  not  at  all!  I  saw  you 
from  the  street ;  I  recognized  you  by  your  walk." 

He  spoke  in  a  very  loud  tone,  and  Bertha  almost 
involuntarily  murmured : 

"Hush!" 

A  mocking  smile  at  once,  made  its  appearance  on 
Klingemann's  face. 


io6  BERTHA  GARLAN 

"He  won't  wake  up,"  he  muttered,  between  his 
clenched  teeth. 

Bertha  was  so  indignant  at  this  remark  that  she 
did  not  attempt  to  find  an  answer,  but  called  Fritz, 
and  was  about  to  depart. 

Klingemann,  however,  seized  her  by  the  hand. 

"Stop,"  he  whispered,  gazing  at  the  ground. 

Bertha  opened  her  eyes  wide ;  she  could  not  under- 
stand. 

Suddenly  Klingemann  looked  up  from  the  ground 
and  fixed  his  eyes  on  Bertha's. 

"I  love  you,  you  see,"  he  said. 

Bertha  uttered  a  low  cry. 

Klingemann  let  go  her  hand,  and  added  in  quite 
an  easy  conversational  tone: 

"Perhaps  that  strikes  you  as  rather  odd." 

"It  is  unheard  of! — unheard  of!" 

Once  more  she  sought  to  go,  and  she  called  Fritz. 

"Stop!  If  you  leave  me  alone  now.  Bertha  .  .  ." 
said  Klingemann,  now  in  a  suppliant  tone. 

Bertha  had  recovered  her  senses  again. 

"Don't  call  me  Bertha!"  she  said,  vehemently. 
"Who  gave  you  the  right  to  do  so  ?  I  have  no  wish 
to  say  anything  further  to  you  .  .  .  and  here,  of 
all  places !"  she  added,  with  a  downward  glance, 
which,  as  it  were,  besought  the  pardon  of  the 
dead. 

Meanwhile  Fritz  had  come  back.  Klingemann 
seemed  very  disappointed. 

"My  dear  lady,"  he  said,  following  Bertha,  who, 


BERTHA  GARLAN  107 

holding  Fritz  by  the  hand,  was  slowly  walking 
away :  "I  recognize  my  mistake.  I  should  have  be- 
gun differently  and  not  said  that  which  seems  now 
to  have  frightened  you,  until  I  had  come  to  the  end 
of  a  well-turned  speech." 

Bertha  did  not  look  at  him,  but  said,  as  though 
she  were  speaking  to  herself : 

"I  would  not  have  considered  it  possible;  I 
thought  you  were  a  gentleman.  .  .  ." 

They  were  at  the  cemetery  gate.  Klingemann 
looked  back  again,  and  in  his  glance  there  was  some- 
thing of  regret  at  not  having  been  able  to  play  out 
his  scene  at  the  graveside  to  a  finish.  Hat  in  hand, 
and  twisting  the  ribbon,  by  which  it  was  fastened, 
round  his  finger,  and  still  keeping  by  Bertha's  side, 
he  went  on  to  say: 

"All  I  can  do  now  is  to  repeat  that  I  love  you, 
that  you  pursue  me  in  my  dreams — in  a  word,  you 
must  be  mine !" 

Bertha  came  to  a  standstill  again,  as  if  she  were 
terrified. 

"You  will,  perhaps,  consider  my  remarks  inso- 
lent, but  let  us  take  things  as  they  are.  You" — he 
made  a  long  pause — "are  alone  in  the  world.  So 
am  I " 

Bertha  stared  him  full  in  the  face. 

"I  know  what  you  are  thinking  of,"  said  Klinge- 
mann. "That  is  all  of  no  consequence;  that  is  all 
done  with  the  moment  you  give  the  word.  I  have 
a  dim  presentiment  that  we  two  suit  each  other  very 


I08  BERTHA  GARLAN 

well.  Yes,  unless  I  am  very  much  deceived,  the 
blood  should  be  flowing  in  your  veins,  my  dear  lady, 
as  warm.  ..." 

The  glance  which  Bertha  now  gave  him  was  so 
full  of  anger  and  loathing  that  Klingemann  was 
unable  to  complete  the  sentence.  He  therefore  be- 
gan another. 

"Ah,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it,  what  sort  of 
a  life  is  it  that  I  am  now  leading?  It  is  even  a 
long,  long  time  since  I  was  loved  by  a  noble  woman 
such  as  you  are,  I  understand,  of  course,  your 
hesitation,  or  rather,  your  refusal.  Deuce  take  it, 
of  course  it  needs  a  bit  of  courage — with  such  a 
disreputable  fellow  as  I  am,  too  .  .  .  although, 
perhaps,  things  are  not  quite  so  bad.  Ah,  if  I  could 
only  find, a  human  soul,  a  kind,  womanly  soul!" — 
He  emphasized  the  "womanly  soul" — "Yes,  my  dear 
lady,  it  was  as  little  meant  to  be  my  fate  as  it  was 
yours  to  pine  away  and  grow  crabbed  in  such  a  hole 
of  a  town  as  this.  You  must  not  be  offended  if  I 
...  if  I " 

The  words  began  to  fail  him  when  he  approached 
the  truth.  Bertha  looked  at  him.  He  seemed  to  her 
at  that  moment  to  be  rather  ridiculous,  almost  piti- 
able, and  very  old,  and  she  wondered  how  it  was 
that  he  still  had  the  courage,  not  so  much  as  to  pro- 
pose to  her,  as  even  simply  to  court  her  favour. 

And  yet,  to  her  own  amazement  and  shame,  there 
overflowed  from  these  unseemly  words  of  a  man 
who  appeared  absurd  to  her,  the  surge,  so  to  speak, 


BERTHA  GARLAN  109 

of  desire.  And  when  his  words  had  died  away  she 
heard  them  again  in  her  mind — ^but  as  though  from 
the  lips  of  another  who  was  waiting  for  her  in 
Vienna — and  she  felt  that  she  would  not  be  able 
to  withstand  this  other  speaker.  Klingemann  con- 
tinued to  talk;  he  spoke  of  his  life  as  being  a  fail- 
ure, but  yet  a  life  worth  saving.  He  said  that 
women  were  to  be  blamed  for  bringing  him  so  low, 
and  that  a  woman  could  raise  him  up  again.  Away 
back  in  his  student  days  he  had  run  away  with  a 
woman,  and  that  had  been  the  beginning  of  his  mis- 
fortunes. He  talked  of  his  unbridled  passions,  and 
Bertha  could  not  restrain  a  smile.  At  the  same 
time  she  was  ashamed  of  the  knowledge  which 
seemed  to  her  to  be  implied  by  the  smile.  ... 

"I  will  walk  up  and  down  in  front  of  your  win- 
dow this  evening,"  said  Klingemann,  when  they 
reached  the  gate.    "Will  you  play  the  piano?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"I  will  take  it  as  a  sign." 

With  that  he  went  away. 

In  the  evening  she  supped,  as  she  had  so  often 
done,  at  her  brother-in-law's  house.  At  the  table 
she  sat  between  Elly  and  Richard.  Mention  was 
made  of  her  approaching  journey  to  Vienna  as 
though  it  was  really  nothing  more  than  a  matter  of 
paying  a  visit  to  her  cousin,  trying  on  the  new  cos- 
tume at  the  dressmaker's,  and  executing  a  few  com- 
missions in  the  way  of  household  necessities,  which 
she  had  promised  to  undertake  for  her  sister-in- 


no  BERTHA  GARLAN 

law.  Towards  the  end  of  supper,  her  brother-in- 
law  smoked  his  pipe,  Richard  read  the  paper  to  him, 
her  sister-in-law  knitted,  and  Elly,  who  had  nestled 
up  close  beside  Bertha,  leaned  her  childish  head  upon 
her  aunt's  breast.  And  Bertha,  as  her  glance  took 
in  the  whole  scene,  felt  herself  to  be  a  crafty  liar. 
She,  the  widow  of  a  good  husband,  was  sitting  there 
in  a  family  circle  which  interested  itself  in  her  wel- 
fare so  loyally;  by  her  side  was  a  young  girl  who 
looked  up  at  her  as  on  an  older  friend.  Hitherto  she 
had  been  a  good  woman,  honest  and  industrious, 
living  only  for  her  son.  And  now,  was  she  not 
about  to  cast  aside  all  these  things,  to  deceive  and 
lie  to  these  excellent  people,  and  to  plunge  into  an 
adventure,  the  end  of  which  she  could  foresee? 
What  was  it,  then,  that  had  come  over  her  these  last 
few  days,  by  what  dreams  was  she  pursued,  how 
was  it  that  her  whole  existence  seemed  only  to  aspire 
towards  the  one  moment  when  she  would  again  feel 
the  arms  of  a  man  about  her?  She  had  but  to 
think  of  it  and  she  was  seized  with  an  indescribable 
sensation  of  horror,  during  which  she  seemed  de- 
void of  will,  as  if  she  had  fallen  under  the  influence 
of  some  strange  power. 

And  while  the  words  that  Richard  was  reading 
beat  monotonously  upon  her  ear,  and  her  fingers 
played  with  the  locks  of  Elly's  hair — she  resisted  for 
the  last  time ;  she  resolved  that  she  would  be  stead- 
fast— that  she  would  do  no  more  than  see  Emil 
once  again,  and  that,  like  her  own  mother  who  had 


BERTHA  GARLAN  iii 

died  long  ago,  and  like  all  the  other  good  women 
she  knew — her  cousin  in  Vienna,  Frau  Mahlmann, 
Frau  Martin,  her  sister-in-law,  and  .  .  .  yes,  cer- 
tainly Frau  Rupius  as  well — she  would  belong  only 
to  him  who  made  her  his  wife.  As  soon,  however, 
as  she  thought  of  that,  the  idea  flashed  through  her 
mind,  like  lightning:  if  he  himself  ...  if  Emil. 
.  .  .  But  she  was  afraid  of  the  thought,  and  ban- 
ished it  from  her.  Not  with  such  bold  dreams  as 
these  would  she  go  to  meet  Emil.  He,  the  great 
artist,  and  she,  a  poor  widow  with  a  child  .  .  .  no, 
no! — she  would  see  him  once  again  ...  in  the 
Museum  of  course,  at  the  Dutch  gallery  .  .  .  once 
only,  and  that  for  the  last  time,  and  she  would  tell 
him  that  she  did  not  wish  for  anything  else  than  to 
see  him  that  once.  With  a  smile  of  satisfaction  she 
pictured  to  herself  his  somewhat  disappointed  face ; 
and,  as  if  practising  beforehand  for  the  scene,  she 
knitted  her  brow  and  assumed  a  stern  cast  of  coun- 
tenance, and  had  the  words  ready  on  her  lips  to  say 
to  him:  "Oh,  no,  Emil,  if  you  think  that.  .  .  .'* 
But  she  must  take  care  not  to  say  it  in  quite  too 
harsh  a  tone,  in  order  that  Emil  might  not,  as  on 
that  previous  occasion  .  .  .  twelve  years  before! 
.  .  .  cease  to  plead  after  only  the  one  attempt.  She 
intended  that  he  should  beg  a  second  time,  a  third 
time — ^ah.  Heaven  knew,  she  intended  that  he  should 
continue  to  plead  until  she  gave  way.  .  .  .  For  she 
felt,  there  in  the  midst  of  all  those  good,  respect- 
able, virtuous  people,  with  whom,  indeed,  she  would 


112  BERTHA  GARLAN 

soon  no  longer  be  numbered,  that  she  would  give  way 
the  moment  he  first  asked  her.  She  was  only  going 
to  Vienna  to  be  his,  and  after  that,  if  needs  must  be, 
to  die. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  following  day  Bertha 
set  off.  It  was  very  hot,  and  the  sun  beat  down 
upon  the  leather-covered  seats  of  the  railway  car- 
riage. Bertha  had  opened  the  window  and  drawn 
forward  the  yellow  curtain,  which,  however,  kept 
flapping  in  the  breeze.  She  was  alone.  But  she 
scarcely  ^thought  of  the  place  towards  which  she  was 
travelling;  she  scarcely  thought  of  the  man  whom 
she  was  about  to  see  again,  or  of  what  might  be  in 
store  for  her — she  thought  only  of  the  strange  words 
she  had  heard,  an  hour  before  her  departure.  She 
would  gladly  have  forgotten  them,  at  least  for  the 
next  few  days.  Why  was  it  that  she  had  been  unable 
to  remain  at  home  during  those  few  short  hours 
between  dinner  and  her  departure?  What  unrest 
had  driven  her  on  this  glowing  hot  afternoon  out 
from  her  room,  on  to  the  street,  into  the  market, 
and  bade  her  pass  Herr  Rupius'  house  ?  He  was  sit- 
ting there  upon  the  balcony,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
gleaming  white  pavement,  and  over  his  knees,  as 
usual,  was  spread  the  great  plaid  rug,  the  ends  of 
which  were  hanging  down  between  the  bars  of  the 
balcony  railings ;  in  front  of  him  was  the  little  table 
with  a  bottle  of  water  and  a  glass.  When  he  per- 
ceived Bertha  his  eyes  became  fixed  upon  her,  as 
though  he  were  making  some  request  to  her,  and 


BERTHA  GARLAN  113 

she  observed  that  he  beckoned  her  wun  a  slight 
movement  of  the  head. 

Why  had  she  obeyed  him?  Why  had  she  not 
taken  his  nod  simply  as  a  greeting  and  thanked  him 
and  gone  upon  her  way?  When,  however,  in  an- 
swer to  his  nod,  she  turned  towards  the  door  of 
the  house,  she  saw  a  smile  of  thanks  glide  over  his 
lips  and  she  found  it  still  on  his  countenance  when 
she  went  out  to  him  on  the  balcony,  through  the 
cool,  darkened  room,  and,  taking  his  outstretched 
hand,  sat  down  opposite  to  him  on  the  other  side 
of  the  little  table. 

"How  are  you  getting  on?"  she  asked. 

At  first  he  made  no  answer;  then  she  observed 
from  the  working  of  his  face  that  he  wanted  to 
say  something,  but  seemed  as  if  he  was  unable  to 
utter  a  word. 

"She  is  going  to  .  .  ."  he  broke  out  at  length. 
These  first  words  he  uttered  in  an  unnecessarily 
loud  voice;  then,  as  though  alarmed  at  the  almost 
shrieking  tone,  he  added  very  softly :  "My  wife  is 
going  to  leave  me." 

Bertha  involuntarily  looked  around  her. 

Rupius  raised  his  hands,  as  if  to  reassure  her. 

"She  cannot  hear  us  She  is  in  her  room ;  she  is 
asleep." 

Bertha  was  embarrassed. 

"How  do  you  know?  .  .  ."  she  stammered.  "It 
is  impossible — quite  impossible!" 

"She  is  going  away — away,  for  a  time,  as  she 


114  BERTHA  GARLAN 

says  .  .  .  for  a  time  ...  do  you  understand?" 
"Why,  yes,  to  her  brother,  I  suppose." 
"She  is  going  away  for  ever  .  .  .  for  ever !  Nat- 
urally she  does  not  like  to  say  to  me :  Good-bye,  you 
will  never  see  me  again !  So  she  says :  I  should  like 
to  travel  a  little ;  I  need  a  change ;  I  will  go  to  the 
lake  for  a  few  weeks ;  I  should  like  to  bathe ;  I  need 
a  change  of  air !  Naturally  she  does  not  say  to  me : 
I  can  endure  it  no  longer;  I  am  young  and  in  my 
prime  and  healthy ;  you  are  paralysed  and  will  soon 
die;  I  have  a  horror  of  your  affliction  and  of  the 
loathsome  state  that  must  supervene  before  it  is  at 
an  end.  So  she  says:  I  will  go  away  only  for  a 
few  weeks,  then  I  will  come  back  again  and  stay 
with  you." 

Bertha's  painful  agitation  became  merged  in  her 
embarrassment. 

"You  are  certainly  mistaken,"  was  all  that  she 
could  answer. 

Rupius  hastily  drew  up  the  rug,  which  was  on 
the  point  of  slipping  down  off  his  knees.  He  seemed 
to  find  it  chilly.  As  he  continued  to  speak,  he  drew 
the  rug  higher  and  higher,  until  finally  he  held  it 
with  both  hands  pressed  against  his  breast. 

"I  have  seen  it  coming;  for  years  I  have  seen 
this  moment  coming.  Imagine  what  sort  of  an 
existence  it  has  been;  waiting  for  such  a  moment, 
defenceless  and  forced  to  be  silent! — ^Why  are  you 
looking  at  me  like  that?" 


BERTHA  GARLAN  115 

•*Oh,  no,"  said  Bertha,  looking  down  at  the  mar- 
ket square. 

"Well,  I  beg  your  pardon  for  referring  to  all  this. 
I  had  no  intention  of  doing  so,  but  when  I  saw  you 
walking  past — well,  thank  you  very  much  for  having 
listened  to  me." 

"Please  don't  mention  it,"  said  Bertha,  mechan- 
ically stretching  out  her  hand  to  him.  He  did  not 
notice  it,  however,  and  she  let  it  lie  upon  the  table. 

"Now  it  is  all  over,"  said  Herr  Rupius;  "now 
comes  the  time  of  loneliness,  the  time  of  dread." 

"But  has  your  wife  .  .  .  she  loves  you,  I'm  sure 
of  it!  ...  I  am  quite  certain  that  you  are  giving 
yourself  needless  anxiety.  Wouldn't  the  simplest 
course  be,  Herr  Rupius,  for  you  to  request  your 
wife  to  forego  this  journey?" 

"Request  ?  .  .  ."  said  Herr  Rupius,  almost  majes- 
tically. "Can  I  pretend  to  have  the  right  to  do  so? 
All  these  last  six  or  seven  years  have  only  been  a 
favour  which  she  has  granted  me.  I  beg  you,  con- 
sider it.  During  all  these  seven  years  not  a  word 
of  complaint  at  the  waste  of  her  youth  has  passed 
her  lips," 

"She  loves  you,"  said  Bertha,  decisively;  "and 
that  is  the  chief  point." 

Herr  Rupius  looked  at  her  for  a  long  time. 

"I  know  what  is  in  your  mind,  although  you  do 
not  venture  to  say  it.  But  your  husband,  my  dear 
Frau  Bertha,  lies  deep  in  the  grave,  and  does  not 
sleep  by  your  side  night  after  night." 


ii6  BERTHA  GARLAN 

He  looked  up  with  a  glance  that  seemed  to  ascend 
to  Heaven  as  a  curse. 

Time  was  getting  on;  Bertha  thought  of  her 
train. 

"When  is  your  wife  going  to  start?" 

"Nothing  has  been  said  about  that  yet — but  I  am 
keeping  you,  perhaps?" 

"No,  not  at  all,  Herr  Rupius,  only.  .  .  .  Hasn't 
Anna  told  you?  I'm  going  to  Vienna  to-day,  you 
know." 

She  grew  burning  red.  Once  more  he  gazed  at 
her  for  a  long  time.  It  seemed  to  her  as  though 
he  knew  everything. 

"When  are  you  coming  back?"  he  asked  drily. 

"In  two  or  three  days." 

She  would  have  liked  to  say  that  he  was  mis- 
taken, that  she  was  not  going  to  see  a  man  whom 
she  loved,  that  all  these  things  about  which  he  was 
worrying  were  sordid  and  mean,  and  really  of  not 
the  slightest  importance  to  women — but  she  was  not 
clever  enough  to  find  the  right  words  to  express 
herself. 

"If  you  come  back  in  two  or  three  days*  time 
you  may,  perhaps,  find  my  wife  still  here.  So,  good- 
bye!    I  hope  you  will  enjoy  yourself." 

She  felt  that  his  glance  had  followed  her  as  she 
went  through  the  dark,  curtained  room  and  across 
the  market  square.  And  now,  too,  as  she  sat  in  the 
railway  carriage,  she  felt  the  same  glance  and  still 
in  her  ears  kept  ringing  those  words,  in  which  there 


BERTHA  GARLAN  117 

seemed  to  lie  the  consciousness  of  an-  immense 
unhappiness,  which  she  had  not  hitherto  under- 
stood. The  torment  of  this  recollection  seemed 
stronger  than  the  expectation  of  any  joys  that  might 
be  awaiting  her,  and  the  nearer  she  approached  to 
the  great  city  the  heavier  she  became  at  heart.  As 
she  thought  of  the  lonely  evening  that  lay  before  her 
she  felt  as  though  she  were  travelling,  without  hope, 
towards  some  strange,  uncertain  destination.  The 
letter,  which  she  still  carried  in  her  bodice,  had  lost 
its  enchantment ;  it  was  nothing  but  a  piece  of  crack- 
ling paper,  filled  with  writing,  the  corners  of  which 
were  beginning  to  get  torn.  She  tried  to  imagine 
what  Emil  now  looked  like.  Faces  bearing  a  slight 
resemblance  to  his  arose  before  her  mind's  eye; 
many  times  she  thought  that  she  had  surely  hit  upon 
the  right  one,  but  it  vanished  immediately.  Doubts 
began  to  assail  her  as  to  whether  she  had  done  the 
right  thing  in  travelling  so  soon.  Why  had  she  not 
waited,  at  least,  until  Monday? 

Then  she  was  obliged,  however,  to  confess  to  her- 
self that  she  was  going  to  Vienna  to  keep  an  ap- 
pointment with  a  young  man,  with  whom  she  had 
not  exchanged  a  word  for  ten  years,  and  who,  per- 
haps, was  expecting  a  quite  different  woman  from 
the  one  who  was  travelling  to  see  him  on  the  mor- 
row. Yes,  that  was  the  cause  of  all  her  uneasiness ; 
she  realized  it  now.  The  letter  which  was  already 
beginning  to  chafe  her  delicate  skin  was  addressed 
to  Bertha,  the  girl  of  twenty;  for  Emil,  of  course, 


ii8  BERTHA  GARLAN 

could  not  know  what  she  looked  like  now.  And, 
although  for  her  own  part,  she  could  assure  herself 
that  her  face  still  preserved  its  girlish  features  and 
that  her  figure,  though  grown  fuller,  still  preserved 
the  contours  of  youth,  might  he  not  see,  in  spite 
of  all,  how  many  changes  a  period  of  ten  years 
had  wrought  in  her,  and,  perhaps,  even  destroyed 
without  her  having  noticed  it  herself? 

The  train  drew  up  at  Klosterneuburg.  Bertha's 
ears  were  assailed  by  the  sound  of  many  clear  voices 
and  the  clatter  of  hurrying  footsteps.  She  looked 
out  of  the  window.  A  number  of  schoolboys 
crowded  up  to  the  train  and,  laughing  and  shout- 
ing, got  into  the  carriages.  The  sight  of  them 
caused  Bertha  to  call  to  mind  the  days  of  her  child- 
hood, when  her  brothers  used  to  come  back  from 
picnics  in  the  country,  and  suddenly  there  came 
before  her  eyes  a  vision  of  the  blue  room  in  which 
the  boys  had  slept.  She  seemed  to  feel  a  tremor 
run  through  her  as  she  realized  how  all  the  past  was 
scattered  to  the  wind ;  how  those  to  whom  she  owed 
her  existence  had  died,  how  those  with  whom  she 
had  lived  for  years  under  one  roof  were  forgotten ; 
how  friendships  which  had  seemed  to  have  been 
formed  to  last  for  ever  had  become  dissolved.  How 
uncertain,  how  mortal,  everything  was ! 

And  he  ...  he  had  written  to  her  as  if  in  the 
course  of  those  ten  years  nothing  had  changed,  as 
if  in  the  meantime  there  had  not  been  funerals, 
births,  sorrows,  illnesses,  cares  and — for  him,  at 


BERTHA  GARLAN  119 

least — so  much  good  fortune  and  fame.  Involun- 
tarily she  shook  her  head.  A  kind  of  perplexity  in 
the  face  of  so  much  that  was  incomprehensible  came 
over  her.  Even  the  roaring  of  the  train,  which  was 
carrying  her  along  to  unknown  adventures,  seemed 
to  her  as  a  chant  of  remarkable  sadness.  Her 
thoughts  went  back  to  the  time,  by  no  means  re- 
mote, in  fact  no  more  than  a  few  days  earlier,  when 
she  had  been  tranquil  and  contented,  and  had  borne 
her  existence  without  desire,  without  regret  and 
without  wonder.  However  had  it  happened  that 
this  change  had  come  over  her?  She  could  not 
understand. 

The  train  seemed  to  rush  forward  with  ever- 
increasing  speed  towards  its  destination.  Already 
she  could  see  the  smoke  of  the  great  city  rising  sky- 
wards as  out  of  the  depths.  Her  heart  began  to 
throb.  She  felt  as  if  she  was  awaited  by  something 
vague,  something  for  which  she  could  not  find  a 
name,  a  thing  with  a  hundred  arms,  ready  to  em- 
brace her.  Each  house  she  passed  knew  that  she  was 
coming;  the  evening  sun,  gleaming  on  the  roofs, 
shone  to  meet  her ;  and  then,  as  the  train  rolled  into 
the  station,  she  suddenly  felt  sheltered.  Now  for 
the  first  time,  she  realized  that  she  was  in  Vienna, 
in  her  Vienna,  the  town  of  her  youth  and  of  her 
dreams,  that  she  was  home.  Had  she  not  given  the 
slightest  thought  to  that  before?  She  did  not  come 
from  home — no,  now  she  had  arrived  home.  The 
din  at  the  station  filled  her  with  a  feeling  of  com- 


120  BERTHA  GARLAN 

fort,  the  bustle  of  people  and  carriages  gladdened 
her,  everything  that  was  sorrowful  had  been  shed 
from  her. 

There  she  stood  at  the  Franz  Josef  Station  in 
Vienna,  on  a  warm  May  evening,  Bertha  Garlan, 
young  and  pretty,  free  and  accountable  to  no  one, 
and  on  the  morrow  she  was  to  see  the  only  man 
whom  she  had  ever  loved — the  lover  who  had  called 
her. 

She  put  up  at  a  little  hotel  near  the  station.  She 
had  determined  to  choose  one  of  the  less  fashion- 
able, partly  for  the  sake  of  economy,  and  partly, 
too,  because  she  stood  in  awe,  to  a  certain  extent, 
of  smart  waiters  and  porters.  She  was  shown  to  a 
room  on  the  third  floor  with  a^  window  looking  out 
on  the  street.  The  chambermaid  closed  the  window 
when  the  visitor  entered,  and  brought  some  fresh 
water,  the  boots  placed  her  box  beside  the  stove,  and 
the  waiter  placed  before  her  the  registration  paper, 
which  Bertha  filled  up  immediately  and  unhesitat- 
ingly, with  the  pride  that  comes  of  a  clear  con- 
science. 

A  feeling  of  freedom  as  regards  external  circum- 
stances, such  as  she  had  not  known  for  a  long  time, 
encompassed  her;  there  were  none  of  the  petty  do- 
mestic cares  of  the  daily  round,  there  was  no  obli- 
gation to  talk  to  relations  or  acquaintances ;  she  was 
at  liberty  that  evening  to  do  just  as  she  liked. 

When  she  had  changed  her  dress  she  opened  the 
window.    She  had  already  been  obliged  to  light  the 


BERTHA  GARLAN  121 

candles,  but  out  of  doors  it  was  not  yet  quite  dark. 
She  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  wtndow-sill  and  looked 
down.  Again  she  remembered  her  childhood,  when 
she  had  often  looked  down  out  of  the  windows  in 
the  evenings,  sometimes  with  one  of  her  brothers, 
who  had  thrown  his  arm  around  her  shoulders.  She 
also  thought  of  her  parents  with  so  keen  an  emotion 
that  she  was  on  the  verge  of  tears. 

Down  below  the  street  lamps  were  already  alight. 
Well,  at  all  events,  she  must  find  something  to  do. 
She  thought  of  what  might  be  happening  the  next 
day  at  that  hour.  .  .  .  She  could  not  picture  it  to 
herself.  At  that  moment,  it  just  happened  that  a 
lady  and  gentleman  drove  by  the  hotel  in  a  cab. 
If  things  turned  out  in  accordance  with  her  wishes, 
Emil  and  she  should  be  going  for  a  drive  together 
into  the  country  the  next  morning — yes,  that  would 
be  nicest.  Some  quiet  spot  away  from  the  town  in  a 
restaurant  garden,  a  candle  lamp  on  the  table,  and 
he  beside  her,  hand  in  hand  like  a  pair  of  young 
lovers.  And  then  back  again — and  then.  .  .  .  No, 
she  would  rather  not  imagine  anything  further! 
Where  was  he  now,  she  wondered.  Was  he  alone? 
Or  was  he  at  that  very  instant  engaged  in  talking 
with  some  one?  And  with  whom — a  man? — a 
woman  ? — a  girl  ?  But,  after  all,  was  it  any  concern 
of  hers?  For  the  present  it  was  certainly  not  any 
concern  of  hers.  And  to  Emil  it  mattered  just  as 
little  that  Herr  Klingemann  had  proposed  to  her  the 
previous  day,  that  Richard,  her  precocious  nephew, 


122  BERTHA  GARLAN 

kissed  her  sometimes,  and  that  she  had  a  great  ad- 
miration for  Herr  Rupius.  She  would  be  sure  to 
ask  him  on  the  morrow — yes,  she  must  be  certain  as 
regards  all  these  points  before  she  .  .  .  well,  before 
she  went  with  him  in  the  evening  into  the  country. 

So  then  she  decided  to  go  out — but  where?  She 
stopped,  irresolute,  at  the  door.  All  she  could  do 
was  to  go  for  a  short  walk  and  then  have  sup- 
per .  .  .  but  again,  where?  A  lady  alone.  .  .  . 
No,  she  would  have  supper  here  in  her  room  at  the 
hotel,  and  go  to  bed  early  so  that  she  might  have  a 
good  night's  rest  and  look  fresh,  young  and  pretty 
in  the  morning. 

She  locked  the  door  and  went  out  into  the  street. 
She  turned  towards  the  inner  town,  and  proceeded 
at  a  very  sharp  pace,  for  she  did  not  like  walking 
alone  in  the  evening.  Soon  she  reached  the  Ring 
and  went  past  the  University,  and  on  to  the  Town 
Hall.  But  she  took  no  pleasure  at  all  in  this  aimless 
rambling.  She  felt  bored  and  hungry,  and  went 
back  to  her  hotel  in  a  tramcar.  She  had  no  great 
desire  to  seek  her  room.  From  the  street  she  had 
already  noticed  that  the  dining-room  of  the  hotel 
was  barely  lighted  and  evidently  empty.  She  had 
supper  there,  after  which  she  grew  tired  and  sleepy 
and,  with  an  effort,  went  up  the  three  flights  of  stairs 
to  her  room.  As  she  sat  on  the  bed  and  undid  her 
shoe  laces,  she  heard  ten  o'clock  chime  in  a  neigh- 
bouring church  steeple. 

When  she  awoke  in  the  morning  she  hurried,  first 


BERTHA  GARLAN  123 

of  all,  to  the  window  and  drew  up  the  blinds  with  a 
great  longing  to  see  the  daylight  and  the  town.  It 
was  a  sunny  morning,  and  the  air  was  as  fresh  as  if 
it  had  come  flowing  down  from  a  thousand  springs 
in  the  forests  and  hills  into  the  streets  of  the  town. 
The  beauty  of  the  morning  acted  on  Bertha  as  a 
good  omen;  she  wondered  at  the  strange,  foolish 
manner  in  which  she  had  spent  the  previous  evening 
— as  if  she  had  not  quite  correctly  understood  why 
she  had  come  to  Vienna.  The  certainty  that  the  re- 
pose of  a  whole  night  no  longer  separated  her  from 
the  longed-for  hour  filled  her  with  a  sense  of  great 
gladness.  All  at  once,  she  could  no  longer  under- 
stand how  it  was  that  she  could  have  come  to 
Vienna,  as  she  had  done  just  recently,  without  dar- 
ing to  make  even  an  attempt  to  see  Emil.  Finally, 
too,  she  wondered  how  it  was  that  she  had,  for 
weeks,  months,  perhaps  years,  needlessly  deferred 
availing  herself  of  the  opportunity  of  seeing  him. 
The  fact  that  she  had  scarcely  thought  of  him  dur- 
ing the  whole  time,  did  not  occur  to  her  at  first,  but, 
when  at  length  she  did  realize  it,  she  was  amazed  at 
that,  most  of  all. 

At  last  only  four  more  hours  were  to  be  en- 
dured, and  then  she  would  see  him.  She  lay  down 
on  the  bed  again ;  she  reclined,  at  first,  with  her  eyes 
wide  open,  and  she  whispered  to  herself,  as  though 
she  wanted  to  intoxicate  herself  with  the  words: 
"Come  soon!"  She  heard  Emil  himself  speak  the 
words,  no  longer  far  away,  no,  but  as  though  he 


124  BERTHA  GARLAN 

were  close  by  her  side.  His  lips  breathed  them  on 
hers:  "Come  soon!"  he  said,  but  the  words  meant: 
"Be  mine!  be  mine!"  She  opened  her  arms  as 
though  making  ready  to  press  her  beloved  to  her 
heart.  "I  love  you,"  she  said,  and  breathed  a  kiss 
into  the  air. 

At  length  she  got  up  and  dressed.  This  time  she 
had  brought  with  her  a  simple  grey  costume,  cut  in 
the  English  fashion,  which,  according  to  the  general 
opinion  of  her  friends,  suited  her  very  well,  and  she 
was  quite  content  with  herself  when  she  had  com- 
pleted her  toilet.  She  probably  did  not  look  like  a 
fashionable  lady  of  Vienna,  but,  on  the  other  hand, 
she  had  not  the  appearance  of  a  fashionable  lady 
from  the  country  either;  it  seemed  to  her  that  she 
looked  more  like  a  governess  in  the  household  of 
some  Count  or  Prince,  than  anything  else.  Indeed, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  there  was  something  of  the 
young,  unmarried  lady  in  her  aspect;  no  one  would 
have  taken  her  for  a  married  woman  and  the  mother 
of  a  five-year-old  boy.  She  thought,  with  a  slight 
sigh,  that  truly  she  would  have  done  better  to  have 
remained  unmarried.  But,  as  to  that,  she  was  feel- 
ing that  day  very  much  like  a  bride. 

Nine  o'clock!  Still  two  long  hours  to  wait! 
What  could  she  do  in  the  meantime  ?  She  sat  down 
at  the  table,  ordered  coffee  and  sipped  it  slowly. 
There  was  no  sense  in  remaining  indoors  any  longer ; 
it  was  better  to  go  out  into  the  open  air  at  once. 

For  a  time  she  walked  about  the  streets  of  the 


BERTHA  GARLAN  125 

suburb,  and  she  took  a  particularly  keen  pleasure  in 
the  wind  blowing  on  her  cheeks.  She  asked  herself : 
What  was  Fritz  doing  at  that  moment?  Probably 
Elly  was  playing  with  him.  Bertha  took  the  road 
which  led  towards  the  public  gardens ;  she  was  glad 
to  go  for  a  walk  through  the  avenues,  in  which,  many 
years  ago,  she  had  played  as  a  child.  She  entered 
the  garden  by  the  gate  opposite  the  Burg-theatre. 
At  that  early  hour  of  the  day  there  were  but  few 
people  in  the  gardens.  Children  were  playing  on 
the  gravel ;  governesses  and  nursemaids  were  sitting 
on  the  seats;  little  girls  were  running  about  along 
the  steps  of  the  Temple  of  Theseus  and  under  its 
colonnade.  Elderly  people  were  walking  in  the 
shade  of  the  avenues;  young  men,  who  were  ap- 
parently studying  from  large  writing  books,  and 
ladies,  who  were  reading  books,  had  taken  their  seats 
in  the  cool  shade  of  the  trees. 

Bertha  sat  on  a  seat  and  watched  two  little  girls 
who  were  jumping  over  a  piece  of  string,  as  she  had 
so  often  done  herself,  when  a  child — ^it  seemed  to 
her,  in  just  the  same  spot.  A  gentle  breeze  blew 
through  the  foliage;  from  afar  she  heard  the  calls 
and  laughter  of  some  children  playing  "catch."  The 
cries  came  nearer  and  nearer ;  and  then  the  children 
ran  trooping  past  her.  She  felt  a  thrill  of  pleasure 
when  a  young  man  in  a  long  overcoat  walked  slowly 
by  and  turned  round  to  look  at  her  for  a  second  time, 
when  he  reached  the  end  of  the  avenue.  Then  there 
passed  by  a  young  couple;  the  girl,  who  had  a  roll 


126  BERTHA  GARLAN 

of  music  in  her  hand,  was  neatly  but  somewhat  strik- 
ingly dressed;  the  man  was  clean-shaven  and  was 
wearing  a  light  summer  suit  and  a  tall  hat.  Bertha 
thought  herself  most  experienced  when  she  fancied 
that  she  was  able  with  certainty  to  recognize  in  the 
girl  a  student  of  music,  and  in  her  companion  a 
young  man  who  had  just  gone  on  the  stage.  It  was 
very  pleasant  to  be  sitting  there,  to  have  nothing  to 
do,  to  be  alone,  and  to  have  people  walking,  run- 
ning and  playing  like  this  before  her.  Yes,  it  would 
be  nice  to  live  in  Vienna  and  be  able  to  do  just  as  she 
liked.  Well,  who  could  say  how  everything  would 
turn  out,  what  the  next  few  hours  would  bring 
forth,  what  prospects  for  her  future  life  that  even- 
ing would  open  out  before  her?  What  was  it  then, 
that  really  forced  her  to  live  in  that  dreadful  little 
town?  After  all,  in  Vienna  she  would  be  able  to 
supplement  her  income  by  giving  music  lessons  just 
as  easily  as  at  home.  Why  not,  indeed  ?  Moreover, 
in  Vienna,  better  terms  were  to  be  obtained  for 
music  lessons.  .  .  .  Ah,  what  an  idea!  .  .  .  if  he 
came  to  her  aid ;  if  he,  the  famous  musician,  recom- 
mended her?  Why,  certainly  it  would  only  need 
one  word  from  him.  What  if  she  were  to  speak 
to  him  on  the  subject?  And  would  it  not  also  be 
a  most  advantageous  arrangement  in  view  of  her 
child  ?  In  a  few  years*  time  he  would  have  to  go  to 
school,  and  then,  of  course,  the  schools  were  so 
much  better  in  Vienna  than  at  home.  No,  it  was 
quite  impossible  for  her  to  pass  all  her  life  in  the 


BERTHA  GARLAN  127 

little  town — she  would  have  to  move  to  Vienna,  and 
that,  too,  at  no  distant  date.  Moreover,  even  if  she 
had  to  economise  here,  and — and.  ...  In  vain  she 
attempted  to  restrain  the  bold  thoughts  which  now 
came  rushing  along.  ...  If  she  should  take  Emil's 
fancy,  if  he  should  again  .  .  .  if  he  should  still  be 
in  love  with  her  .  .  .  if  he  should  ask  her  to  be  his 
wife?  If  she  could  be  a  bit  clever,  if  she  avoided 
compromising  herself  in  any  way,  and  tmderstood 
how  to  fascinate  him — she  felt  rather  ashamed  of 
her  craftiness.  But,  after  all,  was  it  so  bad  that 
she  should  think  of  such  things,  considering  that 
she  was  really  in  love  with  him,  and  had  never  loved 
any  other  man  but  him  ?  And  did  not  the  whole  tone 
of  his  letter  give  her  the  right  to  indulge  in  such 
thoughts  ? 

And  then,  when  she  realised  that  in  a  few  minutes 
she  was  to  meet  him  who  was  the  object  of  her  hopes, 
everything  began  to  dance  before  her  eyes.  She  rose 
to  her  feet,  and  nearly  reeled.  She  saw  the  young 
couple,  who  had  previously  walked  past  her,  leave 
the  gardens  by  the  road  leading  to  the  Burgplatz. 
She  went  off  in  the  same  direction.  Yonder,  she 
saw  the  dome  of  the  Museum,  towering  and  gleam- 
ing. She  decided  to  walk  slowly,  so  as  not  to  ap- 
pear too  excited  or  even  breathless  when  she  met 
him.  Once  more  she  was  seized  with  a  thrill  of  fear 
— suppose  he  should  not  come  ?  But  whatever  hap- 
pened, she  would  not  leave  Vienna  this  time  with- 
out seeing  him. 


128  BERTHA  GARLAN 

Would  it  not,  perhaps,  even  be  better  if  he  did 
not  come,  she  wondered.  She  was  so  bewildered 
at  that  moment  .  .  .  and  supposing  she  was  to  say 
anything  silly  or  awkward.  ...  So  much  depended 
on  the  next  few  minutes — perhaps  her  whole  fu- 
ture. .  .  . 

There  was  the  Museum  before  her.  Up  the  steps, 
through  the  entrance,  and  she  was  standing  in  the 
large,  cool  vestibule.  Before  her  eyes  was  the  g^and 
staircase  and,  yonder,  where  it  divided  to  right  and 
left,  was  the  colossal  marble  statue  of  Theseus  slay- 
ing the  Minotaur.  Slowly  she  ascended  the  stairs 
and,  as  she  looked  round  about  her,  she  grew  calmer. 
The  magnificence  of  her  surroundings  captivated 
her.  She  looked  up  at  the  galleries  which,  with  their 
golden  railings,  ran  round  the  interior  of  the  dome. 
She  came  to  a  stop.  Before  her  was  a  door,  above 
which  appeared  in  gilt  letters :  "Dutch  School." 

Her  heart  gave  a  sudden  convulsive  throb.  Be- 
fore her  eyes  lay  the  row  of  picture  galleries.  Here 
and  there  she  saw  people  standing  before  the  pic- 
tures. She  entered  the  first  hall,  and  gazed  atten- 
tively at  the  first  picture  hanging  at  the  very  en- 
trance. She  thought  of  Herr  Rupius'  portfolio. 
And  then  she  heard  a  voice  say : 

"Good  morning,  Bertha." 


VI 


It  was  his  voice.  She  turned  round.  He  was 
standing  before  her,  young,  slim,  elegant  and  rather 
pale.  In  his  smile  there  was  a  suggestion  of  mock- 
ery. He  nodded  to  Bertha,  took  her  hand  at  the 
same  time,  and  held  it  for  a  while  in  his  own.  It  was 
Emil  himself,  and  it  was  exactly  as  if  the  last  occa- 
sion on  which  they  had  spoken  to  one  another  had 
been  only  the  previous  day. 

"Good  morning,  Emil,"  she  said. 

They  gazed  at  each  other.  His  glance  was  ex- 
pressive of  much:  pleasure,  amiability,  and  some- 
thing in  the  nature  of  a  scrutiny.  She  realised  all 
this  with  perfect  clearness,  whilst  she  gazed  at  him 
with  eyes  in  which  nothing  but  pure  happiness  was 
shining. 

"Well,  then,  how  are  you  getting  on,  Bertha  ?"  he 
asked. 

"Quite  well." 

"It  is  really  funny  that  I  should  ask  you  such  a 
question  after  eight  or  nine  years.  Things  have  prob- 
ably gone  very  differently  with  you." 

"Yes,  indeed,  that's  true.  You  know,  of  course, 
that  my  husband  died  three  years  ago." 

She  felt  obliged  to  assume  an  expression  of  sor- 
row. 

129 


I30  BERTHA  GARLAN 

"Yes,  I  know  that,  and  I  know,  too,  that  you  have 
a  boy.  Let  me  see,  who  could  it  have  been  that  told 
me?" 

"I  wonder  who?" 

"Well,  it'll  come  back  to  me  presently.  It  is  new 
to  me,  though,  that  you  are  interested  in  pictures." 

Bertha  smiled. 

"Well,  it  wasn't  really  on  account  of  the  pictures 
alone.  But  you  mustn't  think  that  I  am  quite  so 
silly  as  all  that.  I  do  take  an  interest  in  pic- 
tures." 

"And  so  do  I.  If  the  truth  must  be  told,  I  think 
I  would  rather  be  a  painter  than  anything  else." 

"Yet  you  ought  to  be  quite  satisfied  with  what 
you  have  attained." 

"Well,  that's  a  question  that  can't  be  disposed  of 
in  one  word.  Of  course,  I  find  it  a  very  pleasant 
thing  to  be  able  to  play  the  violin  so  well,  but  what 
does  it  all  lead  to  ?  Only  to  this,  I  think :  that  when 
I  am  dead  my  name  will  endure  for  a  short  time. 

That "  his  eyes  indicated  the  picture  before 

which  they  were  standing — "that,  on  the  other  hand, 
is  something  diflFerent." 

"You  are  awfully  ambitious,  Emil!" 

He  looked  at  her,  but  without  evincing  the  slight- 
est interest  in  her. 

"Ambitious?  Well,  it  is  not  such  a  simple  mat- 
ter as  all  that.  But  let's  talk  about  something  else. 
What  a  strange  idea  to  indulge  in  a  theoretical  con- 
versation on  the  subject  of  art,  when  we  haven't  seen 


BERTHA  GARLAN  i3r 

each  other  for  a  hundred  years!  So  come,  then, 
Bertha,  tell  me  something  about  yourself !  What  do 
you  do  with  yourself  at  home?  How  do  you  live? 
And  what  really  put  it  into  your  head  to  congratu- 
late me  on  getting  that  silly  Order?" 

She  smiled  a  second  time. 

"I  wanted  to  write  to  you  again,"  she  answered ; 
"and,  chiefly,  I  wanted  to  hear  something  of  you 
once  more.  It  was  really  very  good  of  you  to  an- 
swer my  letter  at  once." 

"Good?  Not  at  all,  my  child!  I  was  so  pleased 
when,  all  of  a  sudden,  your  letter  came — I  recognised 
your  writing  at  once.  You  know,  you  still  have  the 
same  schoolgirl  writing  as.  .  .  .  Well,  let  us  say, 
as  in  the  old  days,  although  I  can't  bear  such  ex- 
pressions." 

"But  why  ?"  she  asked,  somewhat  astonished. 

He  looked  at  her,  and  then  said  in  a  rapid  voice : 

"Well,  tell  me,  how  do  you  live  ?  You  must  gen- 
erally get  very  bored,  I'm  sure." 

"I  haven't  much  time  for  that,"  she  replied 
gravely.    "I  give  lessons,  you  must  know." 

"Oh!" 

His  tone  was  one  of  such  disproportionate  pity 
that  she  felt  constrained  to  add  quickly : 

"Oh,  not  because  there  is  really  any  pressing  need 
for  me  to  do  so — although,  of  course,  I  find  it  very 
useful,  because  .  .  ."  she  felt  that  it  would  be  best 
to  be  quite  frank  with  him  ...  "I  could  scarcely 
lire  on  the  slender  means  that  I  possess." 


132  BERTHA  GARLAN 

**What  is  it,  then,  that  you  are  actually  a  teadier 
of?" 

"What !  Didn't  I  tell  you  that  I  give  piano  les- 
sons ?" 

"Piano  lessons?  Really?  Yes,  of  course  .  .  . 
you  used  to  be  very  talented.  If  you  hadn't  left  the 
Conservatoire  when  you  did  .  .  .  well,  of  course, 
you  would  not  have  become  one  of  the  great  pian- 
istes,  you  know,  but  for  certain  things  you  had  quite 
a  pronounced  aptitude.  For  instance,  you  used  to 
play  Chopin  and  the  little  things  of  Schumann  very 
prettily." 

"You  still  remember  that?" 

"After  all,  I  dare  say  that  you  have  chosen  the 
better  course." 

"In  what  way?" 

"Well,  if  it  is  impossible  to  master  everything, 
it  is  better,  no  doubt,  to  get  married  and  have  chil- 
dren." 

"I  have  only  one  child." 

He  laughed. 

"Tell  me  something  about  him,  and  all  about  your 
own  life  in  general." 

They  sat  down  on  the  divan  in  the  little  saloon 
on  front  of  the  Rembrandts. 

"What  have  I  to  tell  you  about  myself?  There 
is  nothing  in  it  of  the  slightest  interest.  Rather, 
you  tell  me  about  yourself" — she  looked  at  him  with 
admiration — "things  have  gone  so  splendidly  with 
you,  you  are  such  a  celebrated  man,  you  see !" 


BERTHA  GARLAN  133 

Emil  twitched  his  underlip  very  slightly,  as  if  dis- 
contented. 

"Why,  yes,"  she  continued,  undaunted ;  "quite  re- 
cently I  saw  your  portrait  in  an  illustrated  paper." 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said  impatiently. 

"But  I  always  knew  that  you  would  make  a  name 
for  yourself,"  she  added.  "Do  you  still  remember 
how  you  played  the  Mendelssohn  Concerto  at  that 
final  examination  at  the  Conservatoire  ?  Everybody 
said  the  same  thing  then." 

"I  beg  you,  my  dear  girl,  don't,  please,  let  us 
have  any  more  of  these  mutual  compliments!  Tell 
me,  what  sort  of  a  man  was  your  late  husband?" 

"He  was  a  good ;  indeed,  I  might  say  noble,  man.'* 

"Do  you  know,  though,  that  I  met  your  father 
about  eight  days  before  he  died  ?" 

"Did  you  really?" 

"Didn't  you  know?" 

"I  am  certain  he  didn't  tell  me  anything  about  it." 

"We  stood  chatting  with  cme  another  in  the  street 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  perhaps.  I  had  just  re- 
turned then  from  my  first  concert  tour." 

"Not  a  word  did  he  tell  me — not  a  single  word !" 

She  spoke  almost  angrily,  as  though  her  father 
had,  at  that  time,  neglected  something  that  mig^t 
have  shaped  her  future  life  differently. 

"But  why  didn't  you  come  to  see  us  in  those 
days?"  she  continued.  "How  did  it  happen  at  all 
that  you  had  already  suddenly  ceased  to  visit  us 
some  considerable  time  before  my  father's  death?" 


134  BERTHA  GARLAN 

"Suddenly  ?— Gradually !" 

He  looked  at  her  a  long  time;  and  now  his  eyes 
glided  down  over  her  whole  body,  so  that  she  me- 
chanically drew  in  her  feet  under  her  dress,  and 
pressed  her  arms  against  her  body,  as  though  to  de- 
fend herself. 

"Well,  how  did  it  happen  that  you  came  to  get 
married  ?" 

She  related  the  whole  story.  Emil  listened  to  her, 
apparently  with  attention,  but  as  she  spoke  on  and 
remained  seated,  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  gazed  out 
through  the  window.  .  .  .  When  she  had  finished 
with  a  remark  about  the  good-nature  of  her  rela- 
tions, he  said : 

"Don't  you  think  that  we  ought  to  look  at  a  few 
pictures  now  that  we  are  here  in  the  Museum  ?" 

They  walked  slowly  through  the  galleries,  stop- 
ping here  and  there  before  a  picture. 

"Lovely!  Exquisite!"  commented  Bertha  many 
a  time,  but  Emil  only  nodded. 

It  seemed  to  Bertha  that  he  had  quite  forgotten 
that  he  was  with  her.  She  felt  slightly  jealous  at 
the  interest  which  the  paintings  roused  in  him.  Sud- 
denly they  found  themselves  before  one  of  the  pic- 
tures which  she  knew  from  Herr  Rupius*  portfolio. 
Emil  wanted  to  pass  on,  but  she  stopped  and  greeted 
it,  as  she  might  an  old  acquaintance. 

"Exquisite !"  she  exclaimed.  "Emil,  isn't  it  beau^ 
tiful  ?  On  the  whole,  I  greatly  admire  Falckenborg's 
pictures." 


BERTHA  GARLAN  135 

He  looked  at  her,  somewhat  surprised. 

She  became  embarrassed,  and  tried  to  go  on  talk- 
ing. 

"Because  such  an  immense  quantity — iecause  the 
whole  world " 

She  felt  that  this  was  dishonest,  even  that  she  was 
robbing  some  one  who  could  not  defend  himself; 
and  accordingly  she  added,  repentantly,  as  it 
were: 

"You  must  know,  there's  a  man  living  in  our  little 
town  who  has  an  album,  or  rather  a  portfolio,  of 
engravings,  and  that's  how  I  know  the  picture.  His 
name  is  Rupius,  he  is  very  infirm;  just  fancy,  he  is 
quite  paralysed." 

She  felt  obliged  to  tell  Emil  all  this,  for  it  seemed 
to  her  as  though  his  eyes  were  unceasingly  ques- 
tioning her. 

"That  might  be  a  chapter,  too,"  he  said,  with  a 
smile,  when  she  had  come  to  art  end ;  then  he  added 
more  softly,  as  though  ashamed  of  his  indelicate 
joke:  "There  must  certainly  also  be  gentlemen  in 
that  little  town  who  are  not  paralysed." 

She  felt  that  she  had  to  take  poor  Herr  Rupius 
under  her  protection. 

"He  is  a  very  unhappy  man,"  she  said,  and,  re- 
membering how  she  had  sat  with  him  on  the  bal- 
cony the  previous  day,  a  feeling  of  great  compas- 
sion seized  her. 

But  Emil  was  following  his  own  train  of  thought. 


136  BERTHA  GARLAN 

"Yes,"  he  said ;  "that  is  what  I  should  really  like 
to  know — what  experiences  you  have  had." 

"You  know  them,  already." 

"I  mean,  since  the  death  of  your  husband." 

She  understood  now  what  he  meant,  and  was  a 
little  offended. 

"I  live  only  for  my  boy,"  she  said,  with  decision. 
"I  do  not  allow  men  to  make  love  to  me.  I  am  quite 
respectable." 

He  had  to  laugh  it  the  comically  serious  way  in 
which  she  made  this  confession  of  virtue.  For  her 
part,  she  felt  at  once  that  she  ought  to  have  ex- 
pressed herself  differently,  and  so  she  laughed,  too. 

"How  long  are  you  going  to  stay,  then,  in 
Vienna?"  asked  Emil. 

"Till  to-morrow,  or  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

"So  short  a  time  as  that?  And  where  are  you 
staying?    I  should  like  to  know." 

"With  my  cousin,"  she  replied. 

Something  restrained  her  from  mentioning  that 
she  had  put  up  at  an  hotel.  But  immediately  she 
was  angry  with  herself  for  having  told  such  a  stupid 
lie,  and  she  was  about  to  correct  herself.  Emil, 
however,  broke  in  quickly: 

"Perhaps  you  will  have  a  little  time  to  spare  for 
me,  too  ?    I  hope  so,  at  least." 

"Oh,  yes!" 

"So,  then,  we  can  arrange  something  now  if  you 
like" — he  glanced  at  the  clock — "Ah !" 

"Must  you  go?"  she  asked. 


BERTHA  GARLAN  137 

"Yes,  by  twelve  o'clock  I  ought  really  to.  .  .  ." 

She  was  seized  with  an  intense  uneasiness  at  the 
prospect  of  having  to  be  alone  again  so  soon,  and 
she  said: 

"I  have  plenty  of  time — as  much  as  you  like.  But, 
of  course,  it  must  not  be  too  late." 

"Is  your  cousin  so  strict  then  ?" 

"But "  she  said,  "this  time,  as  a  matter  of 

fact,  I'm  not  staying  with  her,  you  see." 

He  looked  at  her  in  astonishment. 

She  grew  red. 

"Usually  I  do  stay  with  her.  ...  I  mean,  Some- 
times. .  .  .  She  has  such  a  large  family,  you  know." 

"So  you  are  staying  at  an  hotel,"  he  said,  rather 
impatiently.  "Well,  there,  of  course,  you  are  ac- 
countable to  no  one,  and  we  can  spend  the  evening 
together  quite  comfortably." 

"I  shall  be  delighted.  But  I  should  like  not  to  be 
too  late  .  .  .  even  in  an  hotel  I  should  like  not  to  be 
too  late.  .  .  ." 

"Of  course  not.  We  will  just  have  supper,  and 
you  can  be  in  bed  long  before  ten  o'clock." 

They  paced  slowly  down  the  grand  staircase. 

"So,  if  you  are  agreeable,"  said  Emil,  "we  will 
meet  at  seven  o'clock." 

She  was  on  the  point  of  replying:  "So  late  as 
that  ?" — but,  remembering  her  resolution  not  to  com- 
promise herself,  she  refrained  and  answered  in- 
stead: 

"Very  well,  at  seven." 


138  •    BERTHA  GARLAN 

"Seven  o'clock  at  .  .  .  where?  .  .  .  Out  of 
doors,  shall  we  say  ?  In  that  case  we  could  go  wher- 
ever we  fancied,  life  would  lie  before  us,  so  to 
speak  ,  .  .  yes." 

He  seemed  to  her  just  then  remarkably  absent- 
minded.  They  went  through  the  entrance  hall,  and 
at  the  exit  they  stopped  for  a  moment. 

"At  seven  o'clock,  then — by  the  Elizabeth 
Bridge." 

"Very  well;  seven  o'clock  at  the  Elizabeth 
Bridge." 

Before  them  lay  the  square,  with  the  Maria  The- 
resa memorial,  in  the  brilliant  glare  of  the  noonday 
sun.  It  was  a  warm  day,  but  a  very  high  wind  had 
arisen.  It  seemed  to  Bertha  that  Emil  was  looking 
at  her  with  a  scrutinising  glance.  At  the  same  time, 
he  appeared  to  her  cold  and  strange,  a  very  different 
man  from  what  he  had  been  when  standing  before 
the  pictures  in  the  Museum. 

"Now  we  will  say  good-bye  for  the  present,"  he 
said,  after  a  time. 

It  made  her  feel  somewhat  unhappy  to  think  that 
he  was  going  to  leave  her. 

"Won't  you  ...  or  can't  I  come  with  you  a  little 
way?"  she  said. 

"Well,  no,"  he  answered.  "Besides,  it  is  blowing 
such  a  gale.  There's  not  much  enjoyment  to  be  had 
in  walking  side  by  side  and  having  to  hold  your  hat 
all  the  time,  for  fear  it  should  blow  away.  Gener- 
ally, it  is  difficult  to  converse  if  you  are  walking 


BERTHA  GARLAN  139 

with  a  person  in  the  street,  and  then,  too^  I  have  to 
be  in  such  a  hurry.  .  .  .  But  perhaps  I  can  see  you 
to  a  carriage?" 

"No,  no,  I  shall  walk." 

"Yes,  you  can  do  that.  Well,  good-bye  till  we 
meet  again  this  evening." 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  to  her,  and  walked 
quickly  away  across  the  square.  She  gazed  after 
him  for  a  long  time.  He  had  taken  off  his  hat  and 
held  it  in  his  hand,  and  the  wind  was  ruffling  his 
hair.  He  went  across  the  Ring,  then  through  the 
Town  Gate,  and  disappeared  from  Bertha's  view. 

Mechanically,  and  very  slowly,  she  had  followed 
him.  Why  had  he  suddenly  grown  so  cold?  Why 
had  he  taken  his  departure  so  quickly?  Why  didn't 
he  want  her  to  accompany  him?  Was  he  ashamed 
of  her?  She  looked  down  at  herself,  wondering 
whether  she  was  not  dressed,  after  all,  in  a  countri- 
fied and  ridiculous  manner.  Oh,  no,  it  could  not  be 
that!  Moreover,  she  had  been  able  to  remark  from 
the  way  in  which  people  gazed  at  her  that  she  was 
not  looking  ludicrous,  but,  on  the  contrary,  decid- 
edly pretty.  Why,  then,  this  sudden  departure  ?  She 
called  to  mind  the  period  of  their  previous  acquaint- 
ance, and  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  remember 
his  having  this  strange  manner  even  then.  He 
would  break  off  a  conversation  quite  unexpectedly, 
whilst  he  suddenly  became  as  though  his  thoughts 
had  been  carried  away,  and  his  whole  being  ex- 
pressed an  impatience  which  he  could  not  master. 


I40  BERTHA  GARLAN 

Yes,  she  was  certain  that  he  had  been  like  that  in 
those  days  also,  though,  perhaps,  less  strikingly  so 
than  now.  She  remembered,  as  well,  that  she  had 
sometimes  make  jokes  on  the  subject  of  his  capri- 
ciousness,  and  had  laid  the  responsibility  at  the  door 
of  his  artistic  temperament.  Since  then  he  had  be- 
come a  greater  artist,  and  certainly  more  absent 
and  irresponsible  than  ever. 

The  chimes  of  noon  rang  out  from  many  a  spire, 
the  wind  grew  higher  and  higher,  dust  flew  into  her 
eyes.  She  had  a  whole  eternity  before  her,  with 
which  she  did  not  know  what  to  do.  Why  wouldn't 
he  see  her,  then,  until  seven  o'clock  ?  Unconsciously, 
she  had  reckoned  on  his  spending  the  whole  day  with 
her.  What  was  it  that  he  had  to  do  ?  Had  he,  per- 
haps, to  make  his  preparations  for  the  concert  ?  And 
she  pictured  him  to  herself,  violin  in  hand,  by  a  cabi- 
net, or  leaning  on  a  piano,  just  as,  many  years  ago, 
he  had  played  before  the  company  at  her  home.  Yes, 
that  would  be  nice  if  she  could  only  be  with  him  now, 
sitting  in  his  room,  on  a  sofa,  while  he  played,  or 
even  accompanying  him  on  the  piano.  Would  she, 
then,  have  gone  with  him  if  he  had  asked  her?  Why 
hadn't  he  asked  her?  No,  of  course,  he  could 
not  have  done  so  within  an  hour  of  seeing  her 
again.  .  .  .  But  in  the  evening — wouldn't  he  ask 
her  that  evening?  And  would  she  go  with  him? 
And,  if  she  went,  would  she  be  able  to  deny  him 
anything  else  that  he  might  ask  her?  Indeed,  he 
had  a  way  of  expressing  everything  so  innocently. 


BERTHA  GARLAN  141 

How  easily  he  had  managed  to  make  those  ten  years 
seem  as  nothing!  Had  he  not  spoken  to  her  as  if 
they  had  seen  each  other  daily  all  that  time  ?  "Good 
morning,  Bertha,  How  are  you,  then  ?" — just  as  he 
might  have  asked  if,  on  the  previous  evening,  he 
had  wished  her  "Good  night!"  and  said  "Good-bye 
till  we  meet  again !"  What  a  number  of  experiences 
he  must  have  had  since  then!  And  who  could  tell 
who  might  be  sitting  on  the  sofa  in  his  room  that 
afternoon,  while  he  leaned  against  the  piano  and 
played  the  violin?  Ah,  no,  she  would  not  think  of 
it.  H  she  followed  up  such  thoughts  to  the  end, 
would  she  not  simply  have  to  go  home  again  ? 

She  walked  past  the  railings  of  the  public  gar- 
dens, and  could  see  the  avenue  where,  an  hour  ago, 
she  had  sat,  and  through  which  clouds  of  dust  were 
now  sweeping.  So,  then,  that  for  which  she  had 
so  deeply  yearned  was  over — she  had  seen  Emil 
again.  Had  it  been  so  lovely  as  she  expected  ?  Had 
she  felt  any  particular  emotion  when  walking  by  his 
side,  his  arm  touching  hers  ?  No !  Had  his  depart- 
ure put  her  out  of  humour?  Perhaps.  Would  she 
be  able  to  go  home  again  without  seeing  him  once 
more?  Good  heavens,  no !  And  a  sensation  almost 
of  terror  thrilled  through  her  at  the  thought.  Had 
not,  then,  her  life  during  the  past  few  days  been,  as 
it  were,  obsessed  by  him?  And  all  the  years  that 
lay  behind  her,  had  they  been  meant  for  anything 
else,  at  all,  than  to  lead  her  back  to  him  at  the  right 
moment?    Ah,  if  she  only  had  a  little  more  experi- 


142  BERTHA  GARLAN 

ence,  if  she  were  a  little  more  worldly-wise!  She 
would  have  liked  to  possess  the  capability  of  marking 
out  for  herself  a  definite  course. 

She  asked  herself  which  would  be  the  wiser — to 
be  reserved  or  yielding?  She  would  gladly  have 
known  what  she  was  to  do  that  evening,  what  she 
ought  ib  dp  in  order  to  win  his  heart  with  greater 
certainty.  She  felt  that  any  move  on  her  part,  one 
way  or  the  other,  might  have  the  effect  of  gaining 
him,  or,  just  as  well,  of  losing  him.  But  she  also 
realised  that  all  her  meditation  was  of  no  avail,  and 
that  she  would  do  just  as  he  wished. 

She  was  in  front  of  the  Votive  Church,  a  spot 
wher^  many  streets  intersected.  The  wind  there  was 
so  violent  as  to  be  altogether  intolerable.  It  was 
time  to  dine.  But  she  decided  that  she  would  not 
go  back  to  the  little  hotel  that  day.  She  turned  to- 
wards the  inner  town.  It  suddenly  occurred  to  her 
that  she  might  meet  her  cousin,  but  that  was  a  mat- 
ter of  supreme  indifference  to  her.  Or,  supposing 
that  her  brother-in-law  had  followed  her  to  Vienna  ? 
But  that  thought  did  not  worry  her  either  in  the 
least.  She  had  a  feeling,  such  as  she  had  never  ex- 
perienced before,  that  she  had  the  right  to  dispose  of 
her  person  and  her  time  just  as  she  pleased.  She 
strolled  leisurely  along  the  streets,  and  amused  her- 
self by  looking  at  the  shop  windows.  On  the 
Stephansplatz  the  idea  came  to  her  to  go  into  the 
church  for  a  while.  In  the  dim,  cool,  and  immense 
building  a  profound  sensation  of  comfort  came  over 


BERTHA  GARLAN  143' 

her.  She  had  never  been  of  a  religious  disposition, 
but  she  could  never  enter  a  place  of  worship  without 
experiencing  a  devotional  feeling  and,  without  cloth- 
ing her  prayers  in  definite  form,  she  had  yet  always 
thought  to  find  a  way  to  send  up  her  wishes  to 
Heaven.  At  first  she  wandered  round  the  church  in 
the  manner  of  a  stranger  visiting  a  beautiful  edifice, 
then  she  sat  down  in  a  pew  before  a  small  altar  in  a 
side  chapel. 

She  called  to  mind  the  day  on  which  she  had  been 
married,  and  she  had  a  vision  of  her  late  husband 
and  herself  standing  side  by  side  before  the  priest— 
but  the  event  seemed  to  be  so  infinitely  far  away  in 
the  past,  and  it  affected  her  spirit  as  little  as  if  hei; 
thoughts  were  occupied  by  strangers.  But  suddenly, 
as  a  picture  changed  in  a  magic  lantern,  she  seemed 
to  see  Emil,  instead  of  her  husband,  standing  by  her 
side,  and  the  picture  appeared  to  stand  out  so  com- 
pletely, without  any  co-operation  on  the  part  of  her 
will,  that  she  almost  had  to  regard  as  a  premonition, 
even  as  a  prediction  from  Heaven  itself.  Mechanic- 
ally, she  folded  her  hands  and  said  softly:  "So  be 
it."  And,  as  though  her  will  acquired  thereby  a 
further  access  of  strength,  she  remained  sitting  in  a 
pew  a  while  longer  and  sought  to  hold  the  picture 
fast. 

After  a  few  minutes  she  went  out  again  into  the 
street,  where  the  broad  daylight  and  the  din  of  the 
traffic  affected  her  as  something  new,  something 
which  she  had  not  experienced  for  a  long  time,  as 


144  BERTHA  GARLAN 

though  she  had  spent  whole  hours  in  the  church. 
She  felt  tranquil,  and  hopes  seemed  to  hover  about 
her. 

She  dined  in  the  restaurant  of  a  fashionable  hotel 
in  the  Kamthemstrasse.  .  .  .  She  was  not  in  the 
least  embarrassed,  and  thought  it  very  childish  that 
she  had  not  preferred  to  put  up  at  a  first-class  hotel. 
On  reaching  her  room  again,  she  undressed  and, 
such  was  the  state  of  languor  into  which  she  had 
fallen  as  the  result  of  the  unusually  rich  meal  and 
the  wine  she  had  taken,  that  she  had  to  stretch  her- 
self out  on  the  sofa  and  fall  asleep.  It  was  five 
o'clock  before  she  awoke.  She  had  no  great  desire 
to  get  up.  Usually  at  that  time  .  .  .  what  would 
she  probably  have  been  doing  at  that  moment  if  she 
had  not  come  to  Vienna?  If  he  had  not  answered 
her  letter — if  she  had  not  written  to  him?  If  he 
had  not  received  that  Order?  If  she  had  never  seen 
his  portrait  in  the  illustrated  paper?  If  nothing  had 
called  his  existence  back  into  her  memory?  If  he 
had  become  an  insignificant,  unknown  fiddler  in 
some  suburban  orchestra?  What  strange  thoughts 
were  these !  Did  she,  then,  love  him  merely  because 
he  was  celebrated  ?  What  did  it  all  mean  ?  Did  she, 
indeed,  take  any  interest  in  his  violin  playing?  .  .  . 
Wouldn't  he  be  dearer  to  her  if  he  was  not  famous 
and  admired  ?  Certainly  in  that  case  she  would  have 
felt  herself  much  nearer  to  him,  much  more  allied  to 
him ;  in  that  case,  she  would  not  have  had  this  feel- 
ing of  uncertainty  about  him,  and  also  he  would 


BERTHA  GARLAN  ^    145 

have  been  different  in  his  manner  towards  her.  As 
it  was,  of  course,  he  was,  indeed,  very  charming,  and 
yet  ,  .  .  she  realized  it  now  .  .  .  something  had 
come  between  them  that  day  and  had  sundered  them. 
Yes,  and  that  was  nothing  else  than  the  fact  that 
he  was  a  man  whom  the  whole  world  knew,  and  she 
was  nothing  but  a  stupid  little  woman  from  the 
country.  Suddenly  she  pictured  him  to  herself  as  he 
had  stood  in  the  Rembrandt  gallery  at  the  Museum, 
and  had  looked  out  of  the  window  while  she  had 
been  telling  him  the  story  of  her  life  in  the  little 
town ;  she  remembered  how  he  had  scarcely  bidden 
her  good-bye,  and  how  he  had  gone  away  from  her, 
indeed,  absolutely  fled  away  from  her.  But,  then, 
had  she  herself  felt  any  emotion  such  as  a  woman 
would  feel  in  the  presence  of  the  man  she  loved? 
Had  she  been  happy  when  he  had  been  speaking  to 
her  ?  Had  she  longed  to  kiss  him  when  he  was  stand- 
ing beside  her  ?  .  .  .  Not  at  all.  And  now — was  she 
pleased  at  the  prospect  of  the  evening  she  was  going 
to  spend  with  him?  Was  she  pleased  at  the  idea 
of  seeing  him  again  in  a  couple  of  hours?  If  she 
had  the  power,  simply  by  expressing  the  wish,  to 
transport  herself  just  where  she  pleased,  would  she 
not,  perhaps,  at  that  moment,  rather  be  at  home, 
with  her  boy,  walking  between  the  vine-trellises, 
without  fear,  without  agitation,  and  with  a  clear 
conscience;  as  a  good  mother  and  a  respectable 
woman,  instead  of  lying  in  that  uncomfortable  room 
in  the  hotel,  on  a  miserable  sofa,  restlessly,  yet  with- 


146  BERTHA  GARLAN 

out  longing,  awaiting  the  next  hours  ?  She  thought 
of  the  time,  still  so  near,  when  all  her  concern  was 
for  nothing  save  her  boy,  the  household,  and  her 
lessons — had  she  not  been  contented,  almost 
happy?  .  .  . 

She  looked  round  her.  The  bare  room  with  the 
ugly  blue  and  white  painted  walls,  the  specks  of  dust 
and  dirt  on  the  ceiling,  the  cabinet  with  its  half -open 
door,  all  seemed  most  repulsive  to  her.  No,  that  was 
no  place  for  her.  Then  she  thought  with  displeasure, 
too,  of  the  dinner  in  the  fashionable  hotel,  and  also 
of  her  strolling  about  in  the  town,  her  weariness,  the 
wind  and  the  dust.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had 
been  wandering  about  like  a  tramp.  Then  another 
thought  came  to  her:  what  if  something  had  hap- 
pened at  home ! — Fritz  might  have  caught  the  fever ; 
they  would  telegraph  to  her  cousin  at  Vienna,  or 
they  might  even  come  to  look  for  her,  and  they  would 
not  be  able  to  find  her,  and  all  would  know  that  she 
had  lied  like  any  disreputable  person  whose  purpose 
it  suits  to  do  so.  .  .  .  It  was  terrible!  How  could 
she  face  them  at  home,  her  sister-in-law,  her  brother- 
in-law,  Elly,  her  grown-up  nephew  Richard  .  ,  . 
the  whole  town,  which,  of  course,  would  hear  the 
news  at  once.  .  .  .  Herr  Rupius!  No,  in  good 
truth,  she  was  not  intended  for  such  things!  How 
childishly  and  clumsily,  after  all,  she  had  set  about 
it,  so  that  only  the  slightest  accident  was  needed  to 
betray  her.  Had  she,  then,  failed  to  give  the  least 
thought  to  all  these  things  ?    Had  she  only  been  ob- 


BERTHA  GARLAN  147 

sessed  with  the  idea  of  seeing  Emil  once  more,  and 
for  that  had  hazarded  everything  .  .  .  her  good 
name,  even  her  whole  future!  For  who  could  say 
whether  the  family  would  not  renounce  her,  and  she 
would  lose  her  music  lessons,  if  the  truth  came 
out?  .  .  .  The  truth,  .  .  .  But  what  could  come 
out  ?  What  had  happened,  then  ?  What  had  she  ta 
reproach  herself  with?  And  with  the  comforting 
feeling  of  a  clear  conscience  she  was  able  boldly  to 
answer :  "Nothing."  And,  of  course,  there  was  still 
time.  .  .  .  She  could  leave  Vienna  directly  by  the 
seven  o'clock  train,  be  back  by  ten  in  her  own  home, 
in  her  own  cosy  room,  with  her  beloved  boy.  .  .  . 
Yes,  she  could;  to  be  sure,  Fritz  was  not  at 
home  .  .  .  but  she  could  have  him  brought 
back.  .  .  .  No,  she  would  not  do  it,  she  would  not 
return  at  once  .  .  .  there  was  no  occasion  to  do  so 
— to-morrow  morning  would  be  quite  time  enough. 
She  would  say  good-bye  to  Emil  that  very  even- 
ing. .  .  .  Yes,  she  would  inform  him  at  once  that 
she  was  returning  home  early  next  morning,  and  that 
her  only  reason  in  coming  had  been  to  press  his  hand 
once  more.    Yes,  that  would  be  best. 

Oh,  he  could,  of  course,  accompany  her  to  the 
hotel ;  and,  goodness  knows,  he  could  even  have  sup- 
per with  her  in  the  garden  restaurant  .  ,  .  and  she 
would  go  away  as  she  had  come.  .  .  .  Besides,  she 
would  see  from  his  behaviour  what  he  really  felt  to- 
wards her :  she  would  be  very  reserved,  even  cold ;  it 
would  be  quite  easy  for  her  to  act  in  that  way,  be- 


148  BERTHA  GARLAN 

cause  she  felt  completely  at  her  ease.  It  seemed  to 
her  as  if  all  her  desires  had  fallen  into  slumber  again, 
and  she  had  a  feeling  akin  to  a  determination  to  re- 
main respectable.  As  a  young  girl  she  had  withstood 
temptation,  she  had  been  faithful  to  her  husband ;  her 
whole  widowhood  had  hitherto  passed  without  at- 
tack. .  .  .  Well,  the  long  and  the  short  of  it  was :  if 
he  wished  to  make  her  his  wife  she  would  be  very 
glad,  but  she  would  reject  any  bolder  proposal  with 
the  same  austerity  as  .  .  .  as  .  .  .  twelve  years  be- 
fore, when  he  had  showed  her  his  window  behind 
St.  Paul's  Church. 

She  stood  up,  stretched  herself,  held  up  her  hands, 
and  went  to  the  window.  The  sky  had  become  over- 
cast, clouds  were  moving  down  from  the  mountains, 
but  the  storm  had  subsided. 

She  got  ready  to  go  out. 


VII 


Bertha  had  hardly  proceeded  a  few  steps  from 
the  hotel  when  it  began  to  rain.  Under  her  open 
umbrella  she  seemed  to  herself  to  be  protected 
against  unwelcome  attentions  from  people  she  might 
meet.  A  pleasant  fragrance  was  diffused  through- 
out the  air,  as  if  the  rain  brought  with  it  the  aroma 
of  the  neighbouring  woods,  shedding  it  over  the 
town.  Bertha  gave  herself  up  wholly  to  the  pleas- 
ure of  the  walk;  even  the  object  of  her  outing  ap- 
peared before  her  mind's  eye  only  vaguely,  as  if 
seen  through  a  mist.  She  had  at  last  grown  so  weary 
as  the  result  of  the  profusion  of  her  changing  feel- 
ings that  she  no  longer  felt  anything  at  all.  She  was 
without  fear,  without  hope,  without  purpose.  She 
walked  on  past  the  gardens,  across  the  Ring,  and 
rejoiced  in  the  humid  fragrance  of  the  elder-trees. 
In  the  forenoon  it  had  completely  escaped  her  no- 
tice that  everything  was  beautiful  in  an  array  of 
violet  blossoms.  An  idea  brought  a  smile  to  her  lips : 
she  went  into  a  flower  shop  and  bought  a  little  bunch 
of  violets.  As  she  raised  the  flowers  to  her  lips, 
a  great  tenderness  came  over  her;  she  thought 
of  the  train  going  homewards  at  seven  o'clock, 
and  she  rejoiced,  as  if  she  had  outwitted  some 
one. 

149 


I50  BERTHA  GARLAN 

She  walked  slowly  across  the  bridge,  diagonally, 
and  remembered  how  she  had  crossed  it  a  few  days 
ago  in  order  to  reach  the  neighbourhood  of  her  for- 
mer home,  and  to  see  Emil's  window  again.  The 
throng  of  traffic  at  the  bridge  was  immense;  two 
streams,  one  coming  from  the  suburb  into  the  town, 
the  other  going  in  the  opposite  direction,  poured  by 
in  confusion ;  carriages  of  all  kinds  rolled  past ;  the 
air  resounded  with  the  jingling  of  bells,  with  whist- 
ling and  with  the  shouts  of  drivers.  Bertha  tried 
to  stand  still,  but  was  pushed  forward. 

Suddenly  she  heard  a  whistle  quite  close  by.  A 
carriage  pulled  up,  a  head  leaned  out  of  the  win- 
dow ...  it  was  Emil.  He  made  a  sign  to  her  to 
come  over  to  him.  A  few  people  immediately  be- 
came attentive,  and  seemed  very  anxious  to  hear 
what  the  young  man  had  to  say  to  the  lady  who 
had  gone  up  to  his  carriage. 

"Will  you  get  in  ?"  Emil  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"Get  in  .  .  .   ?" 

"Why,  yes,  it  is  raining,  you  see !" 

"Really,  I  would  rather  walk,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"Just  as  you  like,"  said  Emil. 

He  got  out  quickly  and  paid  the  driver.  Bertha 
observed,  with  some  alarm,  that  about  half  a  dozen 
people,  who  were  crowding  round  her,  were  very 
anxious  to  see  how  this  remarkable  affair  would 
turn  out. 

"Come,"  said  Emil. 

They  quickly  crossed  the  road,  and  thereby  got 


BERTHA  GARLAN  151 

away  from  the  whole  throng.  They  then  walked 
slowly  along  a  less  frequented  street  by  the  bank  of 
the  Wien. 

"Why,  Emil,  you  haven't  brought  your  umbrella 
with  you !" 

"Won't  you  take  me  under  yours?  Wait  a  mo- 
ment, it  won't  do  like  this." 

He  took  the  umbrella  out  of  her  hand,  held  it 
over  both  of  them,  and  thrust  his  arm  under  hers. 
Now  she  felt  that  it  was  his  arm,  and  rejoiced 
greatly. 

"The  country,  unfortunately,  is  out  of  the  ques- 
tion," he  said. 

"What  a  pity." 

"Well,  what  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself  all 
day  long?" 

She  told  him  about  the  fashionable  restaurant,  in 
which  she  had  had  her  dinner. 

"Now,  why  on  earth  didn't  I  know  about  that?  t 
thought  you  were  dining  with  your  cousin.  We 
might,  of  course,  have  had  such  a  pleasant  lunch  to- 
gether!" 

"You  have  had  so  much  to  do,  I  dare  say,"  she 
said,  a  little  proud  at  being  able  to  infuse  a  slight 
tone  of  sarcasm  into  her  voice. 

"Yes,  that's  true,  in  the  afternoon,  of  course.  I 
had  to  listen  to  half  an  opera." 

"Oh?    How  was  that,  then?" 

"There  was  a  young  composer  with  mc — a  very 
talented  fellow,  in  his  own  way." 


152  BERTHA  GARLAN 

She  was  very  glad  to  hear  that.  So  that,  then, 
was  the  way  in  which  he  spent  his  afternoons. 

He  stood  still  and,  without  letting  go  her  arm^ 
looked  into  her  face. 

"Do  you  know  that  you  have  really  grown  much 
prettier?  Yes,  I  am  quite  serious  about  it!  But, 
tell  me,  first  of  all,  tell  me  candidly,  how  the  idea 
came  to  you  to  write  to  me." 

"Why,  I  have  already  told  you." 

"Have  you  thought  of  me,  then,  all  this  time?" 

"A  great  deal." 

"When  you  were  married,  too?" 

"Certainly,  I  have  always  thought  of  you.  And 
you?" 

"Often,  very  often." 

"But  ..." 

"Well,  what?" 

"You  are  a  man,  you  see !" 

"Yes — but  what  do  you  mean  by  that  ?" 

"I  mean  that  certainly  you  must  have  loved  many 
women." 

"Loved  .  .  .  loved  .  .  .  yes,  I  suppose  I  have." 

"But  I,"  she  broke  out  with  animation,  as  though 
the  truth  was  too  strong  to  be  restrained  within  her; 
"I  have  loved  no  one  but  you." 

He  took  her  hand  and  raised  it  to  his  lips. 

"I  think  we  might  rather  leave  that  undecided, 
though,"  he  said. 

"Look,  I  have  brought  some  violets  with  me  for 
you." 


BERTHA  GARLAN  153 

He  smiled. 

"Are  they  to  prove  that  you  have  told  me  the 
truth?  Anybody  would  think,  from  the  way  in 
which  you  said  that,  that  you  have  done  nothing  else 
since  we  last  met  but  pluck,  or,  at  least,  buy,  violets 
for  me.  However,  many  thanks !  But  tell  me,  why 
didn't  you  want  to  get  into  the  carriage  ?" 

"Oh,  but  you  know,  a  walk  is  so  nice." 

"But  we  can't  walk  forever.  .  .  .  We  are  having 
supper  together,  though  ?" 

"Yes,  I  shall  be  delighted — for  instance,  here  in 
an  hotel,"  she  added  hastily. 

At  that  time  they  were  walking  through  quieter 
streets,  and  it  was  growing  dusk. 

Emil  laughed. 

"Oh,  no,  we  will  arrange  things  a  little  more  cosily 
than  that." 

Bertha  cast  her  eyes  down. 

**However,  we  mustn't  sit  at  the  same  table  as 
strangers,"  she  said. 

"Certainly  not.  We  will  even  go  somewhere 
where  there  is  nobody  else  at  all." 

"What  are  you  thinking  of  ?"  she  asked.  "I  don't 
do  that  sort  of  thing!" 

"Just  as  you  please,"  he  answered,  shruggping  his 
shoulders.    "Have  you  an  appetite  yet?" 

"No,  not  at  all." 

They  were  both  silent  for  a  time. 

"Shall  I  not  make  the  acquaintance  of  your  boy 
some  day  ?"  he  asked. 


154  BERTHA  GARLAN 

"Certainly,"  she  replied,  greatly  pleased;  "when- 
ever you  wish." 

She  began  to  tell  him  about  Fritz,  and  then  went 
on  to  speak  about  her  family,  Emil  threw  in  a 
question  at  times,  and  soon  he  knew  all  that  hap- 
pened in  the  little  town,  even  down  to  the  ef- 
forts of  Klingemann,  of  which  Bertha  gave  him 
an  account,  laughingly,  but  with  a  certain  satisfac- 
tion. 

The  street  lamps  were  alight ;  the  rays  glittered  (Mi 
the  damp  pavements. 

"My  dear  girl,  we  can't  stroll  about  the  streets  all 
night,  you  know,"  said  Emil  suddenly, 

"No  ,  ,  .  but  I  cannot  come  with  you  .  .  .  into 
a  restaurant.  .  .  .  Just  think,  if  I  should  happen  to 
meet  my  cousin  or  anyone  else !" 

"Make  your  mind  easy,  no  one  will  see  us," 

Quickly  he  passed  through  a  gateway  and  closed 
the  umbrella. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  then  ?" 

She  saw  a  large  garden  before  her.  Near  the 
walls,  from  which  canvas  shelters  were  stretched, 
people  were  sitting  at  tables,  laid  for  supper. 

"There,  do  you  mean  ?" 

"No.    Just  come  with  me." 

Immediately  on  the  right  of  the  gate  was  a  small 
door,  which  had  been  left  ajar. 

"Come  in  here." 

They  found  themselves  in  a  narrow,  lighted  pas- 
sage, on  both  sides  of  which  were  rows  of  doors.    A 


BERTHA  GARLAN  155 

waiter  bowed  and  went  in  front  of  them,  past  all  the 
doors.  The  last  one  he  opened,  allowed  the  guests 
to  enter,  and  closed  it  again  after  them. 

In  the  centre  of  the  little  room  stood  a  small 
table  laid  for  three;  by  the  wall  was  a  blue  velvet 
sofa,  and  opposite  that  hung  a  gilt  framed  oval  mir- 
ror, before  which  Bertha  took  her  hat  off  and,  as 
she  did  so,  she  noticed  that  the  names  "Irma"  and 
"Rudi"  had  been  scratched  on  the  glass.  At  the 
same  time,  she  saw  in  the  mirror  Emil  coming  up 
behind  her.  He  placed  his  hands  on  her  cheeks,  bent 
her  head  back  towards  himself,  and  kissed  her  on 
the  lips.  Then  he  turned  away  without  speaking, 
and  rang  the  bell. 

A  very  young  waiter  came  in  at  once,  as  if  he  had 
been  standing  outside  the  door.  \\^en  he  had  taken 
his  order  he  left  them,  and  Emil  sat  down. 

"Well,  Bertha!" 

She  turned  towards  him.  He  took  her  gently  by 
the  hand  and  still  continued  to  hold  it  in  his,  when 
Bertha  had  taken  a  seat  beside  him  on  the  sofa. 
Mechanically  she  touched  her  hair  with  her  other 
hand. 

An  older  waiter  came  in,  and  Emil  made  his 
choice  from  the  menu.  Bertha  agreed  to  every- 
thing.    When  the  waiter  had  departed,  Emil  said: 

"Mustn't  the  question  be  asked:  How  is  it  that 
all  this  hasn't  happened  before  to-day?" 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?" 

"Why  didn't  you  write  to  me  long  ago?" 


I5'6  BERTHA  GARLAN 

"Well,  I  would  ...  if  you  had  got  your  Order 
sooner !" 

He  held  her  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"But  you  come  to  Vienna  fairly  often !" 

"Oh,  no." 

He  looked  up. 

"But  you  said  something  like  that  in  your  letter  !'* 

She  remembered  then,  and  grew  red. 

"Well,  yes  .  .  .  often  .  .  .  Monday  was  the  last 
time  I  was  here." 

The  waiter  brought  sardines  and  caviare,  and  left 
the  room. 

"Well,"  said  Emil;  "it  is  probably  just  the  right 
time." 

"In  what  way?" 

"That  we  should  have  met  again." 

"Oh,  I  have  often  longed  for  you." 

He  seemed  to  be  deep  in  thought. 

"And  perhaps  it  is  also  just  as  well  that  things 
then  turned  out  as  they  did,"  he  said.  "It  is  on  that 
very  account  that  the  recollection  is  so  charming." 

"Yes,  charming." 

They  were  both  silent  for  a  time. 

"Do  you  remember  .  .  ."  she  said,  and  then  she 
began  to  talk  of  the  old  days,  of  their  walks  in  the 
town-park,  and  of  her  first  day  at  the  Conserva- 
toire. 

He  nodded  in  answer  to  everything  she  said,  held 
his  arm  on  the  back  of  the  sofa,  and  lightly  touched 
the  lock  of  hair,  which  curled  over  the  nape  of  her 


BERTHA  GARLAN  157 

neck.  At  times  he  threw  in  a  word.  Then  Emil 
himself  recalled  something  which  she  had  forgot- 
ten ;  he  had  remembered  a  further  outing :  a  trip  to 
the  Prater  one  Sunday  morning. 

"And  do  you  still  recollect,"  said  Bertha,  "how 
we  .  .  ."  she  hesitated  to  utter  it — "once  were  al- 
most in  love  with  each  other  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  said.    "And  who  knows  ..." 

He  was  perhaps  about  to  say :  "It  would  have  been 
better  for  me  if  I  had  married  you" — but  he  did 
not  finish  the  sentence. 

He  ordered  champagne. 

"It  is  not  so  long  ago,"  said  Bertha,  "since  I 
tasted  champagne.  The  last  time  was  about  six 
months  ago,  at  the  party  which  my  brother-in-law 
gave  on  the  occasion  of  his  fiftieth  birthday." 

She  thought  of  the  company  at  her  brother-in- 
law's,  and  it  was  amazing  how  remote  from  the 
present  time  it  all  seemed — the  entire  little  town 
and  all  who  lived  there. 

The  young  waiter  brought  an  ice-tub  with  the 
wine.  At  that  moment  it  occurred  to  Bertha  that 
Emil  had  certainly  been  there  before,  many  a  time, 
with  other  women.  That,  however,  was  a  matter 
of  tolerable  indifference  to  her. 

They  clinked  glasses  and  drank.  Emil  embraced 
Bertha  and  kissed  her.  That  kiss  reminded  her 
of  something  .  .  .  what  could  it  have  been, 
though?  ...  Of  the  kisses  she  had  received  when 
a   young   girl?    ...    Of   the   kiss   of   her   hus- 


158  BERTHA  GARLAN 

band  ?  .  .  .  No.  .  .  .  Then  it  suddenly  occurred  to 
her  that  it  was  exactly  like  the  kisses  which  her 
young  nephew  Richard  had  lately  given  to  her. 

The  waiter-eame  in  with  fruit  and  pastry.  Emil 
put  some  dates  and  a  bunch  of  grapes  on  a  plate  for 
Bertha. 

"Why  don't  you  say  something?"  she  asked. 
"Why  do  you  leave  me  to  do  all  the  talking?  And 
you  know  you  could  tell  me  so  much  1" 

"I?  .  .  ." 

He  slowly  sipped  the  wine. 

"Why,  yes,  about  your  tours." 

"Good  Heavens,  one  town  is  just  like  all  the  oth- 
ers. You  must  not,  of  course,  lose  sight  of  the  fact 
that  I  only  rarely  travel  for  my  own  pleasure." 

"Quite  so,  of  course." 

During  the  whole  time  she  had  not  given  a  thought 
to  the  fact  that  it  was  Emil  Lindbach,  the  celebrated 
violin  virtuoso,  with  whom  she  was  sitting  there; 
and  she  felt  bound  to  say : 

"By  the  way,  you  are  playing  in  Vienna  soon.  I 
should  be  very  glad  to  hear  you." 

"Not  a  soul  will  hinder  you  from  doing  so,"  he 
replied  drily. 

It  passed  through  her  mind  that  it  would  really 
be  very  much  nicer  for  her  to  hear  him  play,  not  at 
the  concert,  but  for  herself  alone.  She  had  almost 
said  so,  but  then  it  occurred  to  her  that  that  would 
have  meant  nothing  else  than:  "I  will  come  with 
you" — ^and,  who  could  say,  perhaps  very  soon  she 


BERTHA  GARLAN  159 

would  go  with  him.  It  would  be  as  easy  for  her 
as  ever,  if  she  had  had  some  wine.  .  .  .  Yet,  not  so, 
the  wine  was  affecting  her  differently  from  usual — 
it  was  not  the  soft  inebriation  which  made  her  feel 
a  little  more  cheerful ;  it  was  better,  lovelier.  It 
was  not  the  few  drops  of  wine  that  made  it  so;  it 
was  the  touch  of  his  dear  hand,  as  he  stroked  her 
brow  and  hair.  He  had  sat  down  beside  her  and 
he  drew  her  head  onto  his  shoulder.  How  gladly 
would  she  have  fallen  asleep  like  that.  .  .  .  Yes,  in- 
deed, nothing  else  did  she  desire.  .  .  .  Then  she 
heard  him  whisper:  "Darling."  .  .  .  She  trembled 
softly. 

Why  was  this  the  first  time  ?  Could  she  not  have 
had  all  this  before?  Was  there  a  grain  of  sense  in 
living  as  she  did  ?  .  .  .  After  all,  there  was  nothing 
wicked  in  what  she  was  doing  now.  .  .  .  And  how 
sweet  it  was  to  feel  the  breath  of  a  young  man  upon 
her  eyelids!  .  .  .  No,  not — ^not  the  breath  of  a 
young  man  ...  of  a  lover.  .  .  . 

She  had  shut  her  eyes.  She  made  not  the  slight- 
est effort  to  open  them  again,  she  had  not  the  least 
desire  to  know  where  she  was,  or  with  whom  she 
was.  .  .  .  Who  was  it,  after  all?  .  .  .  Rich- 
ard? .  .  .  No.  .  .  .  Was  she  falling  asleep, 
then?  .  .  .  She  was  there  with  Emil.  .  .  .  With 
whom?  .  .  .  But  who  was  this  Emil?  .  .  .  How 
hard  it  was  to  be  clear  as  to  who  it  was !  .  .  .  The 
breath  upon  her  eyelids  was  the  breath  of  the  man 
she  had  loved  when  a  girl  .  .  .  and,  at  the  same 


i6o  BERTHA  GARLAN 

time,  that  of  the  celebrated  artist  who  was  soon  to 
give  a  concert  .  .  .  and,  at  the  same  time,  of  a  man 
whom  she  had  not  seen  for  thousands  and  thousands 
of  days  .  .  .  and,  at  the  same  time,  of  a  gentleman 
with  whom  she  was  sitting  alone  in  a  restaurant,  and 
who,  at  that  moment,  could  do  with  her  just  as  he 
pleased.  .  .  .  She  felt  his  kiss  upon  her  eyes.  .  .  . 
How  tender  he  was  .  .  .  and  how  handsome.  .  .  . 
But  what  did  he  really  look  like,  then  ?  .  .  .  She  had 
only  to  open  her  eyes  to  be  able  to  see  him  quite 
plainly.  .  .  .  But  she  preferred  to  imagine  what  he 
was  like,  without  actually  seeing  him.  .  .  .  No,  how 
funny — why,  that  was  not  in  the  least  like  his 
face !  ...  Of  course,  it  was  the  face  of  the  young 
waiter,  who  had  left  the  room  a  minute  or  two  be- 
fore. .  .  .  But  what  did  Emil  look  like,  after 
all?  .  .  .  Like  this?  .  .  .  No,  no,  of  course,  that 
vras  Richard's  face.  .  .  .  But  away  .  .  .  away.  .  .  . 
Was  she  then  so  low  as  to  think  of  nothing  but  other 
men  while  she  .  .  .  was  with  him?  ...  If  she 
could  only  open  her  eyes !  .  .  .  Ah ! 

She  shook  herself  violently,  so  that  she  almost 
pushed  Emil  away — and  then  she  tore  her  eyes  wide 
open. 

Emil  gazed  at  her,  smiling. 

"Do  you  love  me?"  he  asked. 

She  drew  him  towards  her  and  kissed  him  of  her 
own  accord.  ...  It  was  the  first  time  that  day  that 
she  had  given  him  a  kiss  of  her  own  accord,  and 
in  doing  so  she  felt  that  she  was  not  acting  in  ac- 


BERTHA  GARLAN  i6i 

cordance  with  her  resolve  of  the  morning.  .  .  .  She 
tried  to  think  what  that  resolve  had  been.  ...  To 
compromise  herself  in  no  way ;  to  deny  herself.  .  .  . 
Yes,  there  had  certainly  been  a  time  when  that  had 
been  her  wish,  but  why  ?  She  was  in  love  with  him, 
really  and  truly ;  and  the  moment  had  arrived  which 
she  had  been  awaiting  for  days.  .  .  .  No,  for  years ! 

Still  their  lips  remained  pressed  together.  .  .  . 
Ah,  she  longed  to  feel  his  arms  about  her  ...  to 
be  his,  body  and  soul.  She  would  not  let  him  talk 
any  more  ...  he  would  have  to  take  her  unto  him- 
self. .  .  .  He  would  have  to  realize  that  no  other 
woman  could  love  him  so  well  as  she  did.  .  .  . 

Emil  rose  to  his  feet  and  paced  up  and  down  the 
little  room  a  few  times.  Bertha  raised  her  glass  of 
champagne  to  her  lips  again. 

"No  more.  Bertha,"  said  Emil,  in  a  low  tone. 

Yes,  he  was  right,  she  thought.  What  was  she 
really  doing  ?  Was  she  going  to  make  herself  drunk, 
then  ?  Was  there  any  need  for  that  ?  After  all,  she 
was  accountable  to  no  one,  she  was  free,  she  was 
young;  she  was  determined  to  taste  of  happiness 
at  last. 

"Ought  we  not  to  be  thinking  of  going?"  said 
Emil. 

Bertha  nodded.  He  helped  her  to  put  on  her 
jacket.  She  stood  before  the  mirror  and  stuck  the 
pin  through  her  hat.  They  went.  The  young  waiter 
was  standing  before  the  door ;  he  bowed.  A  carriage 
was  standing  before  the  gate ;  Bertha  got  in ;  she  did 


i62  BERTHA  GARLAN 

not  hear  what  instructions  Emil  gave  the  driver. 
Emil  took  his  seat  by  her  side.  Both  were  silent; 
they  sat  pressing  closely  against  each  other.  The 
carriage  rolled  on,  a  long,  long  way.  Wherever 
could  it  be,  then,  that  Emil  lived?  But,  perhaps, 
he  had  purposely  told  the  driver  to  take  a  circuitous 
route,  knowing,  no  doubt,  how  pleasant  it  was  to 
drive  together  through  the  night  like  this. 

The  carriage  pulled  up.    Emil  got  out. 

"Give  me  your  umbrella,"  he  said. 

She  handed  it  out  to  him  and  he  opened  it.  Then 
she  got  out  and  they  both  stood  under  the  shelter 
of  the  umbrella,  on  which  the  rain  was  rattling  down. 
Was  this  the  street  in  which  he  lived?  The  door 
opened;  they  entered  the  hall;  Emil  took  a  candle 
which  the  porter  handed  to  him.  Before  them  was 
a  fine  broad  staircase.  When  they  reached  the  first 
floor  Emil  opened  a  door.  They  passed  through  an 
ante-chamber  into  a  drawing-room.  With  the  candle 
which  he  held  in  his  hand  Emil  lighted  two  others 
upon  the  table;  then  he  went  up  to  Bertha,  who 
was  still  standing  in  the  doorway,  as  though  wait- 
ing, and  led  her  further  into  the  room.  He  took 
the  pin  out  of  her  hat,  and  placed  the  hat  upon  the 
table.  In  the  uncertain  light  of  the  two  feebly-burn- 
ing candles,  Bertha  could  only  see  that  a  few  col- 
oured pictures  were  hanging  on  the  wall — portraits 
of  the  Emperor  and  Empress,  so  it  appeared  to  her 
— that,  on  one  side,  was  a  broad  divan  covered  with 
a  Persian  rug  and  that,  near  the  window,  there  was 


BERTHA  GARLAN  163 

an  upright  piano  with  a  number  of  framed  photo- 
graphs on  the  Hd.  Over  the  piano  a  picture  was 
hanging,  but  Bertha  was  unable  to  make  it  out. 
Yonder,  she  saw  a  pair  of  red  curtains  hanging 
down  beside  a  door,  which  was  standing  half  open 
and  through  the  broad  folds  something  white  and 
gleaming  could  be  seen  within. 

She  could  no  longer  restrain  the  question : 

"Do  you  live  here?" 

"As  you  see." 

She  looked  straight  before  her.  On  the  table 
stood  a  couple  of  little  glasses,  a  decanter  contain- 
ing liqueur  and  a  small  epergne,  loaded  with  fruit 
and  pastry. 

"Is  this  your  study?"  asked  Bertha. 

Mechanically  her  eyes  sought  for  a  desk  such  as 
violin  players  use.  Emil  put  his  arm  round  her 
waist  and  led  her  to  the  piano.  He  sat  down  on 
the  piano  stool  and  drew  her  on  to  his  knees. 

"I  may  as  well  confess  to  you  at  once,"  he  said 
to  her,  simply  and  almost  drily,  "that  really  I  do 
not  live  here.  It  was  only  for  our  own  sake  .  .  . 
that  I  have  .  .  .  for  a  short  while.  ...  I  deemed 
it  prudent.  .  .  .  Vienna,  you  know,  is  a  small  town, 
and  I  didn't  want  to  take  you  into  my  house  at 
night-time." 

She  understood,  but  was  not  altogether  satisfied. 
She  looked  up.  She  was  now  able  to  see  the  out- 
lines of  the  picture  which  was  hanging  above  the 
piano.  ...  It  was  a  naked  female  figure.     Bertha 


l64  BERTHA  GARLAN 

had  a  curious  desire  to  examine  the  picture,  close 
at  hand. 

"What  is  that?"  she  asked. 

"It  is  not  a  work  of  art,"  said  Emil. 

He  struck  a  match  and  held  it  up,  so  as  to  throw 
the  light  on  the  picture.  Bertha  saw  that  it  was 
merely  a  wretched  daub,  but  at  the  same  time  she 
felt  that  the  painted  woman,  with  the  bold  laugh- 
ing eyes,  was  looking  down  at  her,  and  she  was  glad 
when  the  match  went  out. 

"You  might  just  play  something  to  me  upon  the 
piano,"  said  Emil. 

She  wondered  at  the  coldness  of  his  demeanour. 
Didn't  he  realize  that  she  was  with  him  ?  .  .  .  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  did  she  herself  feel  any  special 
emotion?  .  .  .  No.  ...  A  strange  sadness  seemed 
to  come  welling  forth  from  every  comer  of  the 
room.  .  .  .  Why  hadn't  he  rather  taken  her  to  his 
own  house?  .  .  .  What  sort  of  a  house  was  this, 
she  wondered.  ...  She  regretted  now  that  she  had 
not  drunk  more  wine.  .  .  .  She  wished  that  she  was 
not  so  sober.  .  .  . 

"Well,  won't  you  play  something  to  me?"  said 
Emil.  "Just  think  how  long  it  is  since  I  have  heard 
you." 

She  sat  down  and  struck  a  chord. 

"Indeed,  I  have  forgotten  everything." 

"Oh,  do  try!' 

She  played  very  softly  Schumann's  Albumblatt, 
and  she  remembered  how,  a  few  days  before,  late  in 


BERTHA  GARLAN  165 

the  evening,  she  had  improvised  as  she  was  sitting 
at  home,  and  KUngemann  had  walked  up  and  down 
in  front  of  the  window.  She  could  not  help  think- 
ing also  of  the  report  that  he  had  a  scandalous  pic- 
ture in  his  room.  And  involuntarily,  she  glanced 
up  again  at  the  picture  of  the  naked  woman  over  the 
piano,  but  now  the  figure  seemed  to  be  gazing  into 
space. 

Emil  had  brought  a  chair  beside  Bertha's.  He 
drew  her  towards  him  and  kissed  her  while  her 
lingers  first  continued  to  play,  and  at  length  rested 
quietly  upon  the  keys.  Bertha  heard  the  rain  beat- 
ing against  the  window-panes  and  a  sensation  as  of 
being  at  home  came  over  her. 

Then  she  felt  as  though  Emil  was  lifting  her  up 
and  carrying  her.  Without  letting  her  out  of  his 
arms  he  had  stood  up  and  was  slowly  bearing  her 
out  of  the  room.  She  felt  her  right  arm  graze 
against  the  curtain.  .  .  .  She  kept  her  eyes  closed; 
she  could  feel  Emil's  cool  breath  upon  her  hair.  .  .  . 


VIII 

When  they  went  out  into  the  street  the  rain  had 
left  off,  but  the  air  was  permeated  with  a  wondrous 
mildness  and  humidity.  Most  of  the  street  lamps 
had  already  been  extinguished ;  the  one  at  the  street 
comer  was  the  nearest  that  was  alight ;  and,  as  the 
sky  was  still  overcast  with  clouds,  deep  darkness 
hung  over  the  city.  Emil  had  offered  Bertha  his 
arm ;  they  walked  in  silence.  From  a  church  tower 
a  clock  struck — one.  Bertha  was  surprised.  She 
had  believed  that  it  must  be  nearly  morning,  but 
now  she  was  glad  at  heart  to  wander  mutely 
through  the  night  in  the  still,  soft  air,  leaning  on  his 
arm — because  she  loved  him  very  much. 

They  entered  an  open  square ;  before  them  lay  the 
Church  of  St.  Charles. 

Emil  hailed  a  driver  who  had  fallen  asleep,  sit- 
ting on  the  footboard  of  his  open  carriage. 

"It  is  such  a  fine  night,"  said  Emil ;  "we  can  still 
indulge  in  a  short  drive  before  I  take  you  to  your 
hotel— shall  we?" 

The  carriage  started  off.  Emil  had  taken  off  his 
hat;  she  laid  it  in  her  lap,  an  action  which  also 
afforded  her  pleasures.  She  took  a  sidelong  glance 
at  Emil ;  his  eyes  seemed  to  be  looking  into  the  dis- 
tance. 

i66 


BERTHA  GARLAN  167 

"What  are  you  thinking  of?" 

"I  .  .  .  To  tell  the  truth,  Bertha,  I  was  thinking 
of  a  melody  out  of  the  opera,  which  that  man  I 
was  telling  you  about  played  to  me  this  afternoon: 
But  I  can't  get  it  quite  right." 

"You  are  thinking  of  melodies  now  .  .  ."  said 
Bertha,  smiling,  but  with  a  slight  tone  of  reproach 
in  her  voice. 

Again  there  was  silence.  The  carriage  drove 
slowly  along  the  deserted  Ringstrasse,  past  the 
Opera  House,  the  Museum  and  the  public  gardens. 

"Emil?" 

"What  do  you  want,  my  darling?" 

"When  shall  I  at  last  have  an  opportimity  of 
hearing  you  play  again  ?" 

"I  am  playing  at  a  concert  to-day,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,"  he  said,  as  if  it  were  a  joke. 

"No,  Emil,  that  was  not  what  I  meant — I  want 
you  to  play  to  me  alone.  You  will  do  that  just 
once  .  .  .  won't  you?    Please!" 

"Yes,  yes." 

"It  would  mean  so  much  to  me.  I  should  like 
you  to  know  that  there  was  no  one  in  the  room  ex- 
cept myself  listening  to  you." 

"Quite  so.     But  never  mind  that  now,  though." 

He  spoke  in  such  a  decided  tone  of  voice  that 
it  seemed  as  if  he  was  defending  something  from 
her.  She  could  not  understand  for  what  reason  her 
request  could  have  been  distasteful  to  him,  and  she 
continued : 


i68  BERTHA  GARLAN 

"So  then  it  is  settled:  tomorrow  at  five  o'clock 
io  the  evening  at  your  house  ?" 

"Yes,  I  am  curious  to  see  whether  you  will  like 
it  there." 

"Oh,  of  course  I  shall.  Surely  it  will  be  much 
nicer  being  at  your  house  than  at  that  place  where 
we  have  been  this  evening.  And  shall  we  spend 
the  evening  together?  Do  you  know,  I  am  just 
thinking  whether  I  ought  not  to  see  my  cousin.  ..." 

"But,  my  dearest  one,  please,  don't  let  us  map 
out  a  definite  programme." 

In  saying  this  he  put  his  arm  round  her  neck, 
as  if  he  wanted  to  make  her  feel  the  tenderness  which 
was  absent  from  the  tone  of  his  voice. 

"Emil!" 

"Well?" 

"To-morrow  we  will  play  the  Kreutzer  Sonata 
together — the  Andante  at  least." 

"But,  my  dear  child,  we've  talked  enough  about 
music;  do  let  us  drop  the  subject.  I  am  quite  pre- 
pared to  believe  that  you  are  immensely  interested 
in  it." 

Again  he  spoke  in  that  vag^e  way,  from  which 
she  could  not  tell  whether  he  really  meant  what  he 
said  or  had  spoken  ironically.  She  did  not,  how- 
ever, venture  to  ask.  At  the  same  time  her  yearn- 
ing at  that  moment  to  hear  him  play  the  violin  was 
so  keen  that  it  was  almost  painful. 

"Ah,  here  we  are  near  your  hotel,  I  see!"  ex- 
claimed Emil ;  and,  as  if  he  had  completely  forgotten 


BERTHA  GARLAN  169 

his  wish  to  go  for  a  drive  with  her  before  leaving 
her  at  her  door,  he  called  out  the  name  of  the  hotel 
to  the  driver. 

"Emil " 

"Well,  dearest?" 

"Do  you  still  love  me?" 

Instead  of  answering  he  pressed  her  close  to  him 
and  kissed  her  on  the  lips. 

"Tell  me,  Emil " 

"Tell  you  what?" 

"But  I  know  you  don't  like  anybody  to  ask  much 
of  you." 

"Never  mind,  my  child,  ask  anything  you 
like." 

"What  will  you.  .  .  .  Tell  me,  what  are  you  ac- 
customed to  do  with  your  forenoons?" 

"Oh,  I  spend  them  in  all  sorts  of  ways.  To- 
morrow, for  instance,  I  am  playing  the  violin  solo 
in  Haydn's  Mass  in  the  Lerchenfeld  Church." 

"Really?  Then,  of  course,  I  won't  have  to  wait 
any  longer  than  to-morrow  morning  before  I  can 
hear  you." 

"If  you  want  to.  But  it  is  really  not  worth  the 
trouble.  .  .  .  That  is  to  say,  the  Mass  itself,  of 
course,  is  very  beautiful." 

"However  does  it  happen  that  you  are  going  to 
play  in  the  Lerchenfeld  Church?" 

"It  is  ...  an  act  of  kindness  on  my  part." 

"For  whom?" 

"For  whom  .  .  .  well,  for  Haydn,  of  course." 


170  BERTHA  GARLAN 

A  thrill  of  pain  seemed  to  seize  Bertha.    At  that 

moment  she  felt  that  there  must  be  some  special 
connexion  between  it  and  his  taking  part  in  the 
Mass  at  the  Lerchenfeld  Church.  Perhaps  some 
woman  was  singing  in  the  Mass,  who.  .  .  ,  Ah, 
what  did  she  know,  after  all?  .  .  .  But  she  would 
go  to  the  church,  yes,  she  must  go  .  .  .  she  could 
let  no  other  woman  have  Emil !  He  belonged  to  her, 
to  her  alone  ...  he  had  told  her  so,  indeed.  .  .  . 
And  she  would  find  a  way  to  hold  him  fast.  .  .  . 
She  had,  she  told  herself,  such  infinite  tenderness 
for  him  .  .  .  she  had  reserved  all  her  love  for  him 
alone.  .  .  .  She  would  completely  envelop  him 
in  it  ...  no  more  would  he  yearn  for  any  other 
woman.  .  .  .  She  would  move  to  Vienna,  be  with 
him  each  day,  be  with  him  for  ever. 

"Emil- — " 

"Well,  what  is  the  matter  with  you,  darling?" 

He  turned  towards  her  and  looked  at  her  rather 
uneasily. 

"Do  you  love  me?  Good  Heavens,  here  we  are 
already !" 

"Really?"  said  Emil,  with  surprise. 

"Yes — there,  do  you  see? — that's  where  I  am 
staying.  So  tell  me,  please,  Emil,  tell  me  once 
more " 

"Yes,  to-morrow  at  five  o'clock,  my  darling.  I 
am  very  glad." 

"No,  not  that.  .  .  .  Tell  me,  do  you " 

The  carriage  stopped.     Emil  waited  by  Bertha's 


BERTHA  GARLAN  171 

side  ui^til  the  porter  came  out  and  opened  the  door, 
then  he  kissed  her  hand  with  the  most  ceremonious 
politeness,  and  said: 

"Good-bye  till  we  meet  again,  dear  lady." 

He  drove  away. 

Bertha's  sleep  that  night  was  sound  and  heavy. 

When  she  awoke,  the  light  of  the  morning  sun 
was  streaming  around  her.  She  remembered  the 
previous  evening,  and  she  was  very  glad  that  some- 
thing which  she  had  imagined  to  be  so  hard,  and 
almost  g^evous,  had  been  done  and  had  proved  to 
be  quite  easy  and  joyous.  And  then  she  felt  a  thrill 
of  pride  on  recollecting  her  kisses,  which  had  had 
nothing  in  them  of  the  timidity  of  a  first  adventure. 
She  could  not  observe  the  slightest  trace  of  re- 
pentance in  her  heart,  although  it  occurred  to  her 
that  it  was  conventional  to  be  penitent  after  such 
things  as  she  had  experienced.  Words,  too,  like 
**sin"  and  "love  affair"  passed  through  her  mind, 
without  being  able  to  linger  in  her  thoughts,  because 
they  seemed  to  be  devoid  of  all  meaning.  She  be- 
lieved herself  certain  that  she  replied  to  Emil's  ten- 
derness just  like  a  woman  accomplished  in  the  art 
of  love,  and  was  very  happy  in  the  thought  that  all 
those  things  which  came  to  other  women  as  the  re- 
sult of  the  experiences  of  nights  of  drunkenness 
had  come  to  her  from  the  depth  of  her  feelings.  It 
seemed  to  her  as  though  in  the  previous  evening 
she  had  discovered  in  herself  a  gift,  of  the  exist- 
ence of  which  she  had  hitherto  had  no  premonitioo, 


172  BERTHA  GARLAN 

and  she  felt  a  slight  emotion  of  regret  stir  within 
her  at  not  having  turned  that  gift  to  the  best  ad- 
vantage earlier.  She  remembered  one  of  Emil's 
questions  as  to  her  past,  on  account  of  which  she  had 
not  been  so  shocked  as  she  ought  to  have  been,  and 
now,  as  she  recalled  it  to  mind,  the  same  smile  ap- 
peared on  her  lips,  as  when  she  had  sworn  that  she 
had  told  him  the  truth,  which  he  had  not  wanted 
to  believe.  Then  she  thought  of  their  next  meetings 
she  pictured  to  herself  how  he  would  receive  her  and 
escort  her  through  his  rooms.  The  idea  came  to  her 
that  she  would  behave  just  as  if  nothing  at  all  had 
yet  happened  between  them.  Not  once  would  he 
be  able  to  read  in  her  glance  the  recollection  of  the 
previous  evening ;  he  would  have  to  win  her  all  over 
again,  he  would  have  to  woo  her — not  with  words 
alone,  but  also  with  his  music.  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  . 
Wasn't  she  going  to  hear  him  play  that  very  fore- 
noon? ...  Of  course — in  the  Church.  .  .  ,  Then 
she  remembered  the  sudden  jealousy  which  had 
seized  her  the  previous  evening.  .  .  .  Yes,  but  why  ? 
...  It  seemed  to  her  now  to  be  so  absurd — jealousy 
of  a  singer  who  perhaps  was  taking  part  in  singing 
the  Mass,  or  of  some  other  unknown  woman.  She 
would,  however,  go  to  the  Church  in  any  case.  Ah, 
how  fine  it  would  be  to  stand  in  the  dim  light  of 
the  Church,  unseen  by  him  and  unable  to  see  him, 
and  to  hear  only  his  playing,  which  would  float  down 
to  her  from  the  choir.  And  she  felt  as  though  she 
rejoiced  in  the  prospect  of  a  new  tenderness  which 


BERTHA  GARLAN  173 

should  come  to  her  from  him  without  his  appre- 
hending it. 

Slowly  she  got  up  and  dressed  herself.  A  gentle 
thought  of  her  home  rose  up  within  her,  but  it  was 
altogether  without  strength.  She  even  found  it  a 
trouble  to  think  of  it.  Moreover,  she  felt  no  peni- 
tence on  that  account;  rather,  she  was  proud  of 
what  she  had  done.  She  felt  herself  wholly  as 
Emil's  creature;  all  that  had  had  part  in  her  life 
previous  to  his  advent  seemed  to  be  extinguished. 
If  he  were  to  demand  of  her  that  she  should  live  a 
year,  live  the  coming  summer  with  him,  but  that  then 
she  should  die — she  would  obey  him. 

Her  dishevelled  hair  fell  over  her  shoulders. 
Memories  came  to  her  which  almost  made  her  reel. 
.  .  .  Ah,  Heaven;  why  had  all  this  come  so  late, 
so  late  ?  But  there  was  still  a  long  time  before  her 
— ^there  were  still  five,  still  ten  years  during  which 
she  might  remain  beautiful.  .  .  .  Oh,  there  was 
even  longer  so  far  as  he  was  concerned,  if  they 
remained  together,  since,  indeed,  he  would  change 
together  with  her.  And  again  the  hope  flitted 
through  her  mind:  if  he  should  make  her  his  wife, 
if  they  should  live  together,  travel  together,  sleep 
together,  night  after  night — but  now  she  began  to 
feel  slightly  ashamed  of  herself — why  was  it  that 
these  thoughts  were  for  ever  present  in  her  mind? 
Yet,  to  live  together,  did  it  not  mean  something 
further — to  have  cares  in  common,  to  be  able  to 
talk  with  one  another  on  all  subjects?     Yes,  she 


174  BERTHA  GARLAN 

would,  before  all  things,  be  his  friend.  And  that 
was  what  she  would  tell  him  in  the  evening  before 
everything  else.  That  day  he  would  have  at  last 
to  tell  her  everything,  tell  her  about  himself;  he 
would  have  to  unfold  his  whole  life  before  her, 
from  the  moment  when  they  had  parted  twelve 
years  ago  until — and  she  could  not  help  being 
amazed  as  she  pursued  her  thoughts — until  the  pre- 
vious morning.  .  .  .  She  had  seen  him  again  for 
the  first  time  the  morning  before,  and  in  the  space 
of  that  one  day  she  had  become  so  completely  his 
that  she  could  no  longer  think  of  anything  except 
him ;  she  was  scarcely  any  longer  a  mother  ...  no, 
nothing  but  his  beloved. 

She  went  out  into  the  brightness  of  the  summer 
day.  It  occurred  to  her  that  she  was  meeting  more 
people  than  usual,  that  most  of  the  shops  were  shut 
— of  course,  it  was  Sunday!  She  had  not  thought 
of  that  at  all.  And  now  that,  too,  made  her  glad. 
Soon  she  met  a  very  slender  gentleman  who  was 
wearing  his  overcoat  open  and  by  whose  side  was 
walking  a  young  girl  with  very  dark,  laughing  eyes. 
Bertha  could  not  help  thinking  that  she  and  Emil 
looked  just  such  another  couple  .  .  .  and  she  pic- 
tured to  herself  how  beautiful  it  must  be  to  stroll 
about,  not  merely  in  the  darkness  of  the  night,  but, 
just  as  these  two  were  doing,  openly  in  the  broad 
light  of  day,  arm  in  arm,  and  with  happiness  and 
laughter  shining  in  their  eyes.  Many  a  time,  when 
a  gentleman  going  past  her  looked  into  her  face,  she 


BERTHA  GARLAN  175 

felt  as  though  she  understood  the  language  of 
glances,  like  something  new  to  her.  One  man  looked 
at  her  with  a  sort  of  grave  expression,  and  he  seemed 
to  say:  Well,  you  are  also  just  like  the  others! 
Presently  came  two  young  people  who  left  off  talk- 
ing to  each  other  when  they  saw  her.  She  felt  as 
though  they  knew  perfectly  well  what  had  happened 
the  previous  night.  Then  another  man  passed,  who 
appeared  to  be  in  a  great  hurry,  and  he  cast  her  a 
rapid  sidelong  glance  which  seemed  to  say:  Why 
are  you  walking  about  here  as  imposingly,  as  if  you 
were  a  good  woman?  Yesterday  evening  you  were 
in  the  arms  of  one  of  us.  Quite  distinctly  she  heard 
within  her  that  expression  "one  of  us,"  and,  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life,  she  could  not  help  pondering 
over  the  fact  that  all  the  men  who  passed  by  were 
indeed  men,  and  that  all  the  women  were  indeed 
women;  that  they  desired  one  another,  and,  if  they 
so  wished,  found  one  another.  And  she  had  the 
feeling  as  though  only  on  the  previous  day  at  that 
time  she  had  been  a  woman  apart,  from  whom  all 
other  women  had  secrets,  whilst  now  she  also  was 
included  amongst  them  and  could  talk  to  them.  She 
tried  to  remember  the  period  which  followed  her 
wedding,  and  she  recalled  to  mind  that  she  had  felt 
nothing  beyond  a  slight  disappointment  and  shame. 
Very  vague  there  rose  in  her  mind  a  certain  sen- 
tence— she  could  not  tell  whether  she  had  once  read 
it  or  heard  it — namely:  "It  is  always  the  same, 
indeed,  after  all."    And  she  seemed  to  herself  much 


176  BERTHA  GARLAN 

cleverer  than  the  person,  whoever  it  might  have 
been,  man  or  woman,  who  had  spoken  or  written 
that  sentence. 

Presently  she  noticed  that  she  was  following  the 
same  route  as  she  had  taken  on  the  previous  morn- 
ing. Her  eye  fell  on  an  advertising  column  on  which 
was  an  announcement  of  the  concert  in  which  Emil 
was  one  of  those  taking  part.  Delightedly  she 
stopped  before  it.  A  gentleman  stood  beside  her. 
She  smiled  and  thought:  if  he  knew  that  my  eyes 
are  resting  upon  the  very  name  of  the  man  who, 
last  night,  was  my  lover.  .  .  .  Suddenly,  she  felt 
very  proud.  What  she  had  done  she  considered  as 
something  unique.  She  could  scarcely  imagine 
that  other  women  possessed  the  same  courage.  She 
walked  on  through  the  public  gardens  in  which 
there  were  more  people  than  on  the  previous  day. 
Once  again  she  saw  children  playing,  governesses 
and  nursemaids  gossiping,  reading,  knitting.  She 
noticed  particularly  a  very  old  gentleman  who  had 
sat  down  on  a  seat  in  the  sun;  he  looked  at  her, 
shook  his  head  and  followed  her  with  a  hard  and 
inexorable  glance.  The  incident  created  a  most 
unpleasant  impression  upon  her,  and  she  had  a  feel- 
ing of  injury  in  regard  to  the  old  gentleman.  When, 
however,  she  mechanically  glanced  back,  she  ob- 
served that  he  was  gazing  at  the  sunlit  sand  and 
was  still  shaking  his  head.  She  realized  then  that 
this  was  due  to  his  old  age,  and  she  asked  herself 
whether  Emil,  too,  would  not  one  day  be  just  such 


BERTHA  GARLAN  177 

an  aged  gentleman,  who  would  sit  in  the  sun  and 
shake  his  head.  And  all  at  once  she  saw  herself 
walking  along  by  his  side  in  the  chestnut  avenue 
at  home,  but  she  was  just  as  young  as  she  was  now, 
and  he  was  being  wheeled  in  an  invalid's  chair.  She 
shivered  slightly.  If  Herr  Rupius  were  to  know. 
.  .  .  No — never,  never  would  he  believe  that  of  her ! 
If  he  had  supposed  her  capable  of  such  things  he 
would  not  have  called  her  to  join  him  on  the  bal- 
cony and  told  her  that  his  wife  was  intending  to 
leave  him.  .  .  . 

At  that  moment  she  was  amazed  at  what  seemed 
to  her  to  be  the  great  exuberance  of  her  life.  She 
had  the  impression  that  she  was  existing  in  the 
midst  of  such  complex  relations  as  no  other  woman 
did.    And  this  feeling  also  contributed  to  her  pride. 

As  she  walked  past  a  group  of  children,  of  whom 
four  were  dressed  exactly  alike,  she  thought  how 
strange  it  was  that  she  had  not  for  a  moment  con- 
sidered the  fact  that  her  adventure  of  the  previous 
day  might  possibly  have  consequences.  But  a  con- 
nexion between  that  which  had  happened  the  day 
before  between  those  wild  embraces  in  a  strange 
room — and  a  being  which  one  day  would  call  her 
"Mother"  seemed  to  lie  without  the  pale  of  all 
possibility. 

She  left  the  garden  and  took  the  road  to  the 
Lerchenfelderstrasse.  She  wondered  whether  Emil 
was  now  thinking  that  she  was  on  her  way  to  him. 
Whether  his  first  thought  that  morning  had  been 


178  BERTHA  GARLAN 

of  her.  And  it  seemed  to  her  now  that  previously 
her  imagination  had  pictured  quite  differently  the 
morning  after  a  night  such  as  she  had  spent.  .  .  . 
Yes,  she  had  fancied  it  as  a  mutual  awakening, 
breast  on  breast,  and  lips  pressed  to  lips. 

A  detachment  of  soldiers  came  towards  her. 
Officers  paced  along  by  the  side  of  the  pavement; 
one  of  them  jostled  her  slightly,  as  he  passed,  and 
said  politely: 

"I  beg  your  pardon." 

He  was  a  very  handsome  man,  and  he  gave  him- 
self no  further  concern  on  her  account,  which  vexed 
her  a  little.  And  the  thought  came  to  her  involun- 
tarily: had  he  also  a  beloved?  And  suddenly  she 
knew  for  a  certainty  that  he  had  been  with  the 
girl  he  loved  the  previous  night;  also  that  he  loved 
her  only,  and  concerned  himself  with  other  women 
as  little  as  Emil  did. 

She  was  now  in  front  of  the  church.  The  notes 
of  the  organ  came  surging  forth  into  the  street. 
A  carriage  was  standing  there,  and  a  footman  was 
on  the  box.  How  came  that  carriage  there?  All 
at  once,  it  was  quite  clear  to  Bertha  that  some  defi- 
nite connexion  must  have*  subsisted  between  it  and 
Emil,  and  she  resolved  to  leave  the  church  before 
the  conclusion  of  the  Mass  so  as  to  see  who  might 
enter  the  carriage.  She  went  into  the  crowded 
church.  She  passed  forward  between  the  rows  of 
seats  until  she  reached  the  High  Altar,  by  which  the 
priest  was  standing.     The  notes  of  the  organ  died 


BERTHA  GARLAN  179 

away,  the  string  orchestra  began  to  take  up  the 
melody.  Bertha  turned  her  head  in  the  direction  of 
the  choir.  Somehow,  it  seemed  strange  to  her  that 
Emil  should,  incognito,  so  to  speak,  be  playing  the 
solo  in  a  Haydn  Mass  here  in  the  Lerchenf elder 
Church.  .  .  .  She  looked  at  the  female  figures  in 
the  front  seats.  She  noticed  two — three — four 
young  women  and  several  old  ladies.  Two  were 
sitting  in  the  foremost  row ;  one  of  them  was  very 
fashionably  dressed  in  black  silk,  the  other  ap- 
peared to  be  her  maid.  Bertha  thought  that  in  any 
case  the  carriage  must  belong  to  that  aristocratic 
old  lady,  and  the  idea  greatly  tranquillized  her  mind. 
She  walked  back  again,  half  unconsciously  keeping 
everywhere  on  the  lookout  for  pretty  women. 
There  were  still  some  who  were  passably  good- 
looking;  they  all  seemed  to  be  absorbed  in  their 
devotions,  and  she  felt  ashamed  that  she  alone  was 
wandering  about  the  church  without  any  holy 
thoughts. 

Then  she  noticed  that  the  violin  solo  had  already 
begun.  He  was  now  playing — ^he !  he !  .  .  .  And  at 
that  moment  she  was  hearing  him  play  for  the  first 
time  for  more  than  ten  years.  And  it  seemed  to 
her  that  it  was  the  same  sweet  tone  as  of  old,  just 
as  one  recognized  the  voices  of  people  whom  one 
has  not  met  for  years.  The  soprano  joined  in.  If 
she  could  only  see  the  singer !  It  was  a  clear,  fresh 
voice,  though  not  very  highly  trained,  and  Bertha 
felt  something  like  a  personal  connexion  between 


i8o  BERTHA  GARLAN 

the  notes  of  the  violin  and  the  song.  It  was  natural 
that  Emil  should  know  the  girl  who  was  now  sing- 
ing. .  .  .  But  was  there  not  something  more  in  the 
fact  of  their  performing  together  in  the  Mass  than 
appeared  on  the  surface?  The  singing  ceased,  the 
notes  of  the  violin  continued  to  resound,  and  now 
they  spoke  to  her  alone,  as  though  they  wished  to 
reassure  her.  The  orchestra  joined  in,  the  violin 
solo  hovered  over  the  other  instruments,  and  seemed 
only  to  have  that  one  desire  to  come  to  an  under- 
standing with  her.  "I  know  that  you  are  there," 
It  seemed  to  say,  "and  I  am  playing  only  for 
you.  .  .  ." 

The  organ  chimed  in,  but  still  the  violin  solo  re- 
mained dominant  over  the  rest.  Bertha  was  so 
moved  that  tears  rose  to  her  eyes.  At  length  the 
solo  came  to  an  end,  as  though  engulfed  in  the 
swelling  flood  of  sound  from  the  other  instruments, 
and  it  arose  no  more.  Bertha  scarcely  listened,  but 
she  found  a  wonderful  solace  in  the  music  sounding 
around  her.  Many  a  time  she  fancied  that  she  could 
hear  Emil's  violin  playing  with  the  orchestra,  and 
then  it  seemed  quite  strange,  almost  incredible,  that 
she  was  standing  there  by  a  column,  down  in  the 
body  of  the  church  and  he  was  sitting  at  a  desk  up 
in  the  choir  above,  and  the  previous  night  they  had 
been  clasped  in  each  other's  arms,  and  all  the  hun- 
dreds of  people  there  in  the  church  knew  nothing 
at  all  about  it.  .  .  . 

She   must   sec   him   at   once — she   must!     She 


BERTHA  GARLAN  i8i 

wanted  to  wait  for  him  at  the  bottom  of  the  stair- 
case. .  .  .  She  did  not  want  to  speak  a  word  to 
him — no,  but  she  wished  to  see  him  and  also  the 
others  who  came  out — including  the  singer  of  whom 
she  had  been  jealous.  But  she  had  got  completely 
over  that  now ;  she  knew  that  Emil  could  not  deceive 
her.  .  .  . 

The  music  had  ceased;  Bertha  felt  herself  thrust 
forward  towards  the  exit;  she  wanted  to  find  the 
staircase,  but  it  was  at  a  considerable  distance  from 
her.  Indeed,  it  was  just  as  well  that  it  was  so  .  .  . 
no,  she  would  not  have  dared  to  do  it,  to  put  herself 
forward,  to  wait  for  him — what  would  he  have 
thought  of  her?  He  certainly  would  not  have  liked 
it!  No,  she  would  disappear  with  the  crowd,  and 
would  tell  him  in  the  evening  that  she  had  heard 
him  play.  She  was  now  positively  afraid  of  being 
observed  by  him.  She  stood  at  the  entrance,  walked 
down  the  steps,  and  went  past  the  carriage,  just  as 
the  old  lady  and  her  maid  were  getting  into  it. 
Bertha  could  not  help  smiling  when  she  called  to 
mind  in  what  a  state  of  apprehension  the  sight  of 
that  carriage  had  thrown  her,  and  it  seemed  to  her 
that  her  suspicion  in  regard  to  the  carriage  having 
been  removed,  all  the  others  must  necessarily  flicker 
out.  She  felt  as  though  she  had  passed  through  an 
extraordinary  adventure  and  was  standing  now  on 
the  brink  of  an  absolutely  new  existence.  For  the 
first  time  it  seemed  to  her  to  have  a  meaning ;  every- 
thing else  had  been  but  a  fiction  of  the  imagination 


i82  BERTHA  GARLAN 

and  became  as  nothing  in  comparison  with  the  hap- 
piness which  was  streaming  through  her  pulses, 
while  she  slowly  sauntered  from  the  church  through 
the  streets  of  the  suburbs  towards  her  hotel.  It 
was  not  until  she  had  nearly  reached  her  destination 
that  she  noticed  that  she  had  gone  the  whole  way  as 
though  lost  in  a  dream  and  could  scarcely  remember 
which  way  she  had  taken  and  whether  she  had  met 
any  people  or  not. 

As  she  was  taking  the  key  of  her  room  the 
porter  handed  her  a  note  and  a  bouquet  of  violets 
and  lilac  blossoms.  .  .  .  Oh,  why  had  not  she  had  a 
similar  idea  and  sent  Emil  some  flowers?  But 
what  could  he  have  to  write  to  her  about  ?  With  a 
slight  thrill  of  fear  at  her  heart,  she  opened  the 
letter  and  read: 

"Dearest, 

"I  must  thank  you  once  again  for  that  delightful 
evening.  To-day,  unfortunately,  it  is  impossible 
for  me  to  see  you.  Don't  be  angry  with  me,  my  dear 
Bertha,  and  don't  forget  to  let  me  know  in  good 
time  on  the  next  occasion  when  you  come  to  Vienna. 
"Ever  your  own 

"Emil." 

She  went,  she  ran  up  the  stairs,  into  lier  own 
room.  .  .  .  Why  was  he  unable  to  see  her  that  day  ? 
Why  did  he  not  at  least  tell  her  the  reason?  But 
then,  after  all,  what  did  she  know  of  his  various 


BERTHA  GARLAN  183 

obligations  of  an  artistic  and  social  nature?  ...  It 
would  certainly  have  been  going  too  much  into  de- 
tail, and  it  would  have  appeared  like  an  evasion  if 
he  had,  at  full  length,  given  his  reasons  for  putting 
her  off.  But  in  spite  of  that.  .  .  .  And  then,  why 
did  he  say:  the  next  occasion  when  you  came  to 
Vienna?  .  .  .  Had  she  not  told  him  that  she  would 
be  remaining  there  a  few  days  longer?  He  had 
forgotten  that — ^he  must  have  forgotten  it!  And 
immediately  she  sat  down  and  wrote: 

"My  Dearest  Emil, 

*'I  am  very  sorry  indeed  that  you  have  had  to 
put  me  off  to-day,  but  luckily  I  am  not  leaving 
Vienna  yet.  Do  please  write  to  me  at  once,  dearest, 
and  tell  me  whether  you  can  spare  a  little  time  for 
me  to-morrow  or  the  next  day. 

"A  thousand  kisses  from  your 

"Bertha." 

"P.S. — It  is  most  uncertain  when  I  shall  be  com- 
ing to  Vienna  again,  and  I  should  be  very  sorry 
in  any  case  to  go  away  without  seeing  you  once 
more." 

She  read  the  letter  over.  Then  she  added  a  fur- 
ther postscript : 

"I  must  see  you  again!" 

She  hurried  out  into  the  street,  handed  the  letter 


1 24  BERTHA  GARLAN 

to  a  commissionaire,  and  impressed  upon  him 
strongly  that  he  was  on  no  account  to  come  back 
without  an  answer.  Then  she  went  up  to  her  room 
again  and  posted  herself  at  the  window.  She  wanted 
to  keep  herself  from  thinking,  she  wished  only  to 
look  down  into  the  street.  She  forced  herself  to 
fix  her  attention  on  the  passers-by,  and  she  recalled 
to  mind  a  game,  which  she  used  to  play  as  a  child, 
and  in  which  she  and  her  brothers  looked  out  of 
the  window  and  amused  themselves  by  commenting 
on  how  this  or  that  passer-by  resembled  some  one 
or  other  of  their  acquaintances.  In  the  present 
circumstances,  it  was  a  matter  of  some  difficulty  for 
her  to  discover  any  such  resemblances,  for  her  room 
was  situated  on  the  third  story;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  owing  to  the  distance,  it  was  easier  for  her 
to  discover  the  arbitrary  resemblances  which  she  was 
looking  for.  First  of  all,  came  a  woman  who  looked 
like  her  cousin  Agatha ;  then  some  one  who  reminded 
her  of  her  music  teacher  at  the  Conservatoire;  he 
was  arm  in  arm  with  a  woman  who  looked  like  her 
sister-in-law's  cook.  Yonder  was  a  young  man  who 
bore  a  resemblance  to  her  brother,  the  actor.  Di- 
rectly behind  him,  and  in  the  uniform  of  a  captain, 
a  person  who  was  the  image  of  her  dead  father 
came  along  the  road;  he  stood  still  awhile  before 
the  hotel,  glanced  up,  exactly  as  if  he  were  seeking 
her,  and  then  disappeared  through  the  doorway. 
For  a  moment  Bertha  was  as  greatly  alarmed  as  if 
it  really  had  been  her  father,  who  had  come  as  a 


BERTHA  GARLAN  185 

ghost  from  the  grave.  Then  she  forced  herself  to 
laugh — loudly — and  sought  to  continue  the  game, 
but  she  was  not  able  to  play  it  any  longer  with 
success. 

Her  sole  purpose  now  was  to  see  whether  the 
commissionaire  was  coming.  At  length  she  decided 
to  have  dinner,  just  to  while  away  the  time.  After 
she  had  ordered  it,  she  again  went  to  the  window. 
But  now  she  no  longer  looked  in  the  direction  from 
which  the  commissionaire  had  to  come,  but  her 
glances  followed  the  crowded  omnibuses  and  trams 
on  their  way  to  the  suburbs.  Then  the  captain, 
whom  she  had  seen  a  short  time  before,  struck 
her  attention  again,  as  he  was  just  jumping  on 
to  a  tram,  a  cigarette  in  his  mouth.  He  no 
longer  bore  the  slightest  resemblance  to  her  dead 
father. 

She  heard  a  clatter  behind  her;  the  waiter  had 
come  into  the  room.  Bertha  ate  but  little,  and 
drank  her  wine  very  quickly.  She  grew  sleepy,  and 
leaned  back  in  the  comer  of  the  divan.  Her  thoughts 
gradually  grew  indistinct;  there  was  a  ringing  in 
her  ears  like  the  echoes  of  the  organ  which  she 
had  heard  in  the  church.  She  shut  her  eyes  and, 
all  at  once,  as  though  evoked  by  magic,  she  saw 
the  room  in  which  she  had  been  with  Emil  the 
previous  evening,  and  behind  the  red  curtains  she 
perceived  the  gleaming  whiteness  of  the  coverlet. 
It  appeared  that  she  herself  was  sitting  again  be- 
fore the  piano,  but  another  man  was  holding  her 


i86  BERTHA  GARLAN 

in  a  close  embrace — it  was  her  nephew  Richard. 
With  an  effort  she  tore  her  eyes  open,  she  seemed 
to  herself  depraved  beyond  all  measure,  and  she  felt 
panic-stricken  as  though  some  atonement  would 
have  to  be  exacted  from  her,  for  these  visionary 
fancies. 

Once  more  she  went  to  the  window.  She  felt 
as  if  an  eternity  had  passed  since  she  had  sent  the 
commissionaire  on  his  errand.  She  read  through 
Emil's  letter  once  again.  Her  glance  lingered  on  the 
last  words:  "Ever  your  own";  and  she  repeated 
them  to  herself  aloud  and  in  a  tender  tone,  and 
called  to  mind  similar  words  which  he  had  spoken 
the  previous  evening.  She  concocted  a  letter  which 
was  surely  on  the  point  of  arriving  and  would  cer- 
tainly be  couched  in  these  terms:  "My  dearest 
Bertha!  Heaven  be  thanked  that  you  are  going 
to  remain  in  Vienna  until  to-morrow!  I  shall  ex- 
pect you  for  certain  at  my  house  at  three  o'clock," 
or:  "to-morrow  we  will  spend  the  whole  day  to- 
gether," or  even;  "I  have  put  off  the  appoint- 
ment I  had,  so  we  can  still  see  each  other  to-day. 
Come  to  me  at  once;  longingly  I  am  waiting 
for  you!" 

Well,  whatever  his  answer  might  be,  she  would 
see  him  again  before  leaving  Vienna,  although  not 
that  day  perhaps.  Indeed,  anything  else  was  quite 
unthinkable.  Why,  then,  was  she  a  prey  to  this 
dreadful  agitation,  as  though  all  were  over  between 
them?    But  why  was  his  answer  so  long  in  com- 


BERTHA  GARLAN  187 

ing?  ...  He  had,  in  any  case,  gone  out  to  dinner 
—of  course,  he  had  no  one  to  keep  house  for  him! 
So  the  earliest  that  he  could  be  home  again  was 
three  o'clock.  .  .  .  But  if  he  were  not  to  return 
home  till  the  evening?  .  .  .  She  had,  indeed,  told 
the  commissionaire  to  wait  in  any  case — even  till 
the  night,  if  necessary.  .  .  .  But  what  was  she  to 
do?  Of  course,  she  could  not  stand  there  looking 
out  of  the  window  all  the  time !  The  hours,  indeed, 
seemed  endless !  She  was  ready  to  weep  with  impa- 
tience, with  despair! 

She  paced  up  and  down  the  room ;  then  she  again 
stood  at  the  window  for  a  while,  then  she  sat  down 
and  took  up  for  a  short  time  the  novel  which  she 
had  brought  with  her  in  her  travelling  bag;  she 
attempted,  too,  to  go  to  sleep — ^but  did  not  succeed 
in  doing  so.  At  length  four  o'clock  struck — ^nearly 
three  hours  had  passed  since  she  had  begun  her 
vigil. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  The  commis- 
sionaire came  into  the  room  and  handed  her  a  letter. 
She  tore  open  the  envelope  and  with  an  involuntary 
movement,  so  as  to  conceal  the  expression  on  her 
features  from  the  stranger,  she  turned  towards  the 
window. 

She  read  the  letter. 

"My  Dearest  Bertha, 

"It  is  very  good  of  you  still  to  give  me  a  choice 
between  the  next  few  days  but,  as  indeed  I  have 


i88  BERTHA  GARLAN 

already  hinted  to  you  in  my  former  letter,  it  is, 
unfortunately,  absolutely  impossible  for  me  to  do 
just  as  I  like  during  that  time.  Believe  me,  I  regret 
that  it  is  so,  at  least  as  much  as  you  do. 

"Once  more  a  thousand  thanks  and  a  thousand 
greetings  and  I  trust  that  we  will  be  able  to  arrange 
a  delightful  time  when  next  we  meet. 

"Don't  forget  me  completely, 

"Your 

"Emil." 

When  she  had  finished  reading  the  letter  she  was 
quite  calm ;  she  paid  the  commissionaire  the  fee  he 
demanded  and  found  that,  for  a  person  in  her  cir- 
cumstances, it  was  by  no  means  insignificant.  Then 
she  sat  down  at  the  table  and  tried  to  collect  her 
thoughts.  She  realized  immediately  that  she  could 
no  longer  remain  in  Vienna,  and  her  only  regret 
was  that  there  was  no  train  which  could  take  her 
home  at  once.  On  the  table  stood  the  half  empty 
bottle  of  wine,  bread  crumbs  were  scattered  beside 
the  plate,  on  the  bed  lay  her  spring  jacket,  beside 
it  were  the  flowers  which  he  had  sent  her  that  very 
morning. 

What  could  it  all  mean  ?    Was  it  at  an  end  ? 

Indistinctly,  but  so  that  it  seemed  that  it  must 
bear  some  relation  to  her  recent  experiences,  there 
occurred  to  her  a  sentence  which  she  had  once  read. 
It  was  about  men  who  desire  nothing  more  than 
'*to  attain  their  object.  .  .  ."    But  she  had  always 


BERTHA  GARLAN  189 

considered  that  to  be  a  phrase  of  the  novelists.  But, 
after  all,  it  was  surely  not  a  letter  of  farewell  that 
she  was  holding  in  her  hand,  was  it?  .  .  .  Was  it 
really  not  a  letter  of  farewell?  Might  not  these 
kind  words  be  also  lies?  .  .  .  Also  lies — ^that  was 
it !  .  .  .  For  the  first  time  the  positive  word  forced 
itself  into  her  thoughts.  .  .  .  Liesl  .  .  .  Then  it 
was  certain  that,  when  he  brought  her  home  the 
previous  night,  he  had  already  made  up  his  mind 
not  to  see  her  again.  And  the  appointment  for  the 
present  day  and  his  desire  to  see  her  again  that  day 
were  lies.  .  .  . 

She  went  over  the  events  of  the  previous  evening* 
in  her  mind,  and  she  asked  herself  what  could  she 
have  said  or  done  to  put  him  out  of  humour  or 
disappoint  him.  .  .  .  Really,  it  had  all  been  so  beau- 
tiful, and  Emil  had  seemed  so  happy,  just  as  happy 
as  she  had  been  .  .  .  was  all  that  going  to  prove 
to  have  been  a  lie  too?  .  .  .  How  could  she  tell? 
.  .  .  Perhaps,  after  all,  she  had  put  him  out  of 
humour  without  being  aware  that  she  was  doing 
so.  .  .  .  She  had,  indeed,  been  nothing  more  or 
less  than  a  good  woman  all  her  life.  .  .  .  Who 
could  say  whether  she  had  not  been  guilty  of  some- 
thing clumsy  or  stupid?  .  .  .  whether  she  had  not 
been  ludicrous  and  repellent  in  some  moment  when 
she  had  believed  herself  to  be  sacrificing,  tender,  en- 
chanted and  enchanting?  .  .  .  But  what  did  she 
know  of  all  these  things?  .  .  .  And,  all  at  once,  she 
felt  something  almost  in  the  nature  of  repentance 


190  BERTHA  GARLAN 

that  she  had  set  out  upon  her  adventure  so  utterly 
unprepared,  that,  until  the  previous  day,  she  had 
been  so  chaste  and  good,  that  she  had  not  had  other 
lovers  before  Emil.  .  .  .  Then  she  remembered,  too, 
that  he  had  evaded  her  shy  questions  and  requests 
on  the  subject  of  his  violin  playing,  as  if  he  had 
not  wanted  to  admit  her  into  that  sphere  of  hb 
life.  He  had  thus  remained  strange  to  her,  inten- 
tionally strange,  so  far  as  concerned  the  very  things 
which  were  of  the  deepest  and  most  vital  impor- 
tance to  him.  All  at  once  she  realized  that  she  had 
no  more  in  common  with  him  than  the  pleasures  of 
a  night,  and  that  the  present  morning  had  found  them 
both  as  far  apart  from  one  another  as  they  had  been 
during  all  the  years  in  which  they  had  each  led  a 
separate  existence. 

And  then  jealousy  again  flared  up  within  her.  .  .  . 
But  she  felt  as  though  she  was  always  thus,  as 
though  every  conceivable  emotion  had  always  been 
present  within  her  .  .  .  love  and  distrust,  and  hope 
and  penitence,  and  yearning  and  jealousy  .  .  .  and, 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  was  so  stirred,  even 
to  the  very  depths  of  her  soul,  that  she  understood 
those  who  in  their  despair  have  hurled  themselves 
out  of  a  window  to  meet  their  death.  .  .  .  And 
she  perceived  that  tfie  present  state  of  affairs  was 
impossible,  that  only  certainty  could  be  of  any  avail 
to  her.  .  .  .  She  must  go  to  him  and  ask  him  .  .  . 
but  she  must  ask  in  the  manner  of  one  who  is  hold- 
ing a  knife  to  another's  breast  .  .  . 


BERTHA  GARLAN  191 

She  hurried  away  through  the  streets,  which 
were  almost  deserted,  as  though  all  Vienna  had  gone 
off  into  the  country.  .  .  .  But  would  she  find  him 
at  home?  .  .  .  Would  he  not,  perhaps,  have  had  a 
presentiment  that  the  idea  might  come  to  her  to 
seek  him,  to  take  him  to  task,  and  would  he  not 
have  taken  steps  to  evade  the  chance  of  such  an 
occurrence?  .  .  .  She  was  ashamed  of  having  had 
to  think  of  that,  too.  .  .  .  And  if  he  was  at 
home  would  she  find  him  alone?  .  .  .  And  if  he 
was  not  alone,  would  she  be  admitted  into  his 
house  ? 

And  if  she  fotmd  him  in  the  arms  of  some  other 
woman,  what  should  she  say?  .  .  .  Had  he  prom- 
ised her  anything  ?  Had  he  sworn  to  be  true  to  her  ? 
Had  she  even  so  much  as  demanded  loyalty  of  him? 
How  could  she  have  imagined  that  he  was  waiting 
for  her  here  in  Vienna  until  she  congratulated  him 
on  his  Spanish  Order?  .  .  .  Yes,  could  he  not  say 
to  her:  "You  have  thrown  yourself  on  my  neck 
and  have  desired  nothing  more  than  that  I  should 
take  you  as  you  are.  .  .  ."  And  if  she  asked  her- 
self— was  he  not  right?  .  .  .  Had  she  not  come  to 
Vienna  to  be  his  beloved  ? — ^and  for  no  other  reason 
.  .  .  without  any  regard  to  the  past,  without  any 
guarantee  as  to  the  future?  .  .  .  Yes,  that  was  all 
she  had  come  for !  All  other  hopes  and  wishes  had 
only  transiently  hovered  around  her  passion,  and 
she  did  not  deserve  anything  better  than  that  which 
had  happened  to  her.  .  .  .  And  if  she  was  candid 


103  BERTHA  GARLAN 

to  herself,  she  must  also  admit  that  of  all  that  she 
had  experienced  this  had  still  been  the  best.  .  .  . 

She  stopped  at  a  street  comer.  All  was  quiet 
around  her;  the  summer  air  about  her  was  heavy 
and  sultry.  She  retraced  her  steps  back  to  her  hotel. 
She  was  very  tired,  and  a  new  thought  rose  up  con- 
vulsively within  her :  was  it  not  possible  that  he  had 
written  to  put  her  off  only  because  he  also  was  tired  ? 
...  She  seemed  to  herself  very  experienced  when 
that  idea  occurred  to  her.  .  .  .  And  yet  another 
thought  flashed  through  her  mind :  that  he  could 
also  love  no  other  woman  in  the  way  in  which  he 
had  loved  her.  .  .  .  And  suddenly  she  asked 
whether,  after  all,  the  previous  night  would  remain 
her  only  experience — ^whether  she  herself  would  be- 
long to  no  other  man  save  him  ?  And  she  rejoiced 
in  the  doubt,  as  if,  by  cherishing  it,  she  was  taking 
a  kind  of  revenge  on  his  compassionate  glance  and 
mocking  lips. 

And  now  she  was  back  again  in  the  cheerless  room 
away  up  in  the  third  storey  of  the  hotel.  The  re- 
mains of  her  dinner  had  not  yet  been  cleared  away. 
Her  jacket  and  the  flowers  were  still  lying  on  the 
bed.  She  took  the  flowers  in  her  hand  and  raised 
them  to  her  lips,  as  though  about  to  kiss  them. 
Suddenly,  however,  as  though  her  whole  anger  burst 
forth  again,  she  flung  them  violently  to  the  ground. 
Then  she  threw  herself  on  the  bed,  her  face  buried 
in  her  hands. 

After  lying  for  some  time  in  this  position  she 


BERTHA  GARLAN  193 

felt  her  calmness  gradually  returning.  It  was  per- 
haps just  as  well  that  she  could  return  home  that 
very  day.  She  thought  of  her  boy,  how  he  was  ac- 
customed to  lie  in  his  little  cot  with  his  whole  face 
beaming  with  laughter,  if  his  mother  leaned  over 
the  railings.  She  yearned  for  him.  Also  she 
yearned  in  some  slight  degree  for  Elly  and  for  Frau 
Rupius.  Yes,  it  was  true — Frau  Rupius,  of  course, 
was  going  to  leave  her  husband.  .  .  .  What  could 
there  be  at  the  bottom  of  it  all  ?  .  .  .  A  love  affair  ? 
.  .  .  But,  strangely  enough,  she  was  now  still  less 
able  than  before  to  picture  to  herself  the  answer 
to  that  question. 

It  was  growing  late,  it  was  time  for  her  to  get 
ready  for  her  departure.  .  .  .  So,  then,  she  would 
be  home  again  by  Sunday  evening. 

She  sat  in  the  carriage ;  on  her  lap  lay  the  flowers, 
which  she  had  picked  up  from  the  floor.  .  .  .  Yes, 
she  was  now  travelling  home,  leaving  the  town 
where  she  .  .  .  had  experienced  something — that 
was  the  right  expression,  wasn't  it?  .  .  .  Words 
which  she  had  read  or  heard  in  connexion  with  simi- 
lar circumstances  kept  recurring  continually  to  her 
mind  .  .  .  such  words  as :  "bliss"  .  .  .  "transports 
of  love"  .  .  .  "ecstasy"  .  .  .  and  a  gentle  thrill  of 
pride  stirred  within  her  at  having  experienced  what 
those  words  denoted.  And  yet  another  thought 
came  to  her  which  caused  her  to  grow  singularly 
calm:  if  he  also — maybe — ^had  an  affair  with  an- 
other woman  at  that  very  time  .  .  .  she  had  taken 


194  BERTHA  GARLAN 

him  from  her  .  .  .  not  for  long  indeed,  but  yet  as 
completely  as  it  was  possible  to  take  a  man  from  a 
woman.  She  grew  calmer  and  calmer,  almost 
cheerful. 

It  was,  indeed,  clear  to  her  that  she.  Bertha,  the 
inexperienced  woman,  could  not,  with  one  assault, 
completely  obtain  possession  of  her  beloved.  .  .  . 
But  might  she  not  be  successful  on  a  second  occa- 
sion, she  wondered?  She  was  very  glad  that  she 
had  not  carried  out  her  determination  to  hasten  to 
him  at  once.  Indeed,  she  even  formed  the  intention 
of  writing  him  such  a  cold  letter  that  he  would  fall 
into  a  mild  fit  of  anger;  she  would  be  coquettish, 
subtle.  .  .  .  But  she  must  have  him  again  ...  of 
that  she  was  certain  .  .  .  soon,  and,  if  possible,  for 
ever!  .  .  .  And  so  her  dreams  went  on  and  on  as 
the  train  carried  her  homewards.  .  .  .  Ever  bolder 
they  grew  as  the  humming  of  the  wheels  grew 
deeper  and  deeper,  lulling  her  into  a  semi-slumber- 
ous state. 

On  her  arrival  she  found  the  little  town  buried 
in  a  deep  sleep — she  reached  home  and  told  the 
maidservant  to  fetch  Fritz  from  her  sister-in-law's 
the  first  thing  in  the  morning.  Then  she  slowly 
undressed  herself.  Her  glance  fell  on  the  portrait 
of  her  dead  husband,  which  hung  over  the  bed.  She 
asked  herself  whether  it  should  remain  in  that  posi- 
tion. Then  the  thought  ocurred  to  her  that  there 
are  some  women  who  come  from  their  lovers  and 
then  are  able  to  sleep  by  the  side  of  their  husbands, 


BERTHA  GARLAN  195 

and  she  shuddered.  .  .  .  She  could  never  have  done 
such  a  thing  while  her  husband  had  been  alive !  .  .  . 
And,  if  she  had  done  it,  ^e  would  never  have  re- 
turned home  again.  .  .  . 


IX 


The  next  morning  Bertha  was  wakened  by 
Fritz.  He  had  jumped  on  to  her  bed  and  had 
breathed  softly  on  her  eyehds.  Bertha  sat  up,  em- 
braced and  kissed  him,  and  he  immediately  began 
to  tell  her  how  well  he  had  fared  with  his  uncle 
and  aunt,  how  Elly  had  played  with  him,  and  how 
Richard  had  once  had  a  fight  with  him  without  be- 
ing able  to  beat  him.  On  the  previous  day,  too,  he 
had  learned  to  play  the  piano,  and  would  soon  be 
as  clever  at  it  as  mamma. 

Bertha  was  content  just  to  listen  to  him. 

"If  only  Emil  could  hear  his  sweet  prattle  now !" 
she  thought. 

She  considered  whether,  on  the  next  occasion, 
she  should  not  take  Fritz  with  her  to  Vienna  to  sec 
Emil,  by  doing  which  she  would  at  once  remove 
anything  of  a  suspicious  nature  in  such  a  visit. 

She  thought  only  of  the  pleasant  side  of  her  ex- 
periences in  Vienna,  and  of  the  letters  which  Emil 
had  written  to  put  her  off  scarcely  anything  re- 
mained in  her  memory,  other  than  those  words 
which  had  reference  to  a  future  meeting. 

She  got  up  in  an  almost  cheerful  frame  of  mind 
and,  whilst  she  was  dressing  herself,  she  felt  a 
quite  new  tenderness  for  her  own  body,  which  still 

196 


BERTHA  GARLAN  197 

seemed  .to  her  to  be  fragrant  with  the  kisses  of  her 
beloved. 

While  the  morning  was  yet  young,  she  went  to 
call  on  her  relations.  As  she  walked  by  the  house 
of  Herr  Rupius  she  deliberated  for  a  moment 
whether  she  should  not  go  up  and  see  him  there  and 
then.  But  she  had  a  vague  fear  of  being  immedi- 
ately involved  again  in  the  agitated  atmosphere  of 
the  household,  and  she  deferred  the  visit  until  the 
afternoon. 

At  her  brother-in-law's  house  Elly  was  the  first 
to  meet  her,  and  she  welcomed  her  as  boisterously 
as  if  Bertha  had  returned  from  a  long  journey. 
Her  brother-in-law,  who  was  on  the  point  of  going 
out,  jestingly  shook  a  threatening  finger  at  Bertha 
and  said: 

"Well,  have  you  had  a  good  time?" 

Bertha  felt  herself  blushing  crimson. 

"Yes,"  he  continued ;  "these  are  pretty  stories  that 
we  hear  about  you!" 

He  did  not,  however,  notice  her  embarrassment 
and,  as  he  went  out  of  the  door,  greeted  her  with 
a  glance  which  plainly  meant :  "You  can't  keep  your 
secrets  from  me." 

"Father  is  always  making  jokes  like  that,"  said 
Elly.    "I  don't  like  him  doing  that  at  all !"  " 

Bertha  knew  that  her  brother-in-law  had  only 
been  talking  at  random,  as  his  usual  manner  was, 
and  that,  if  she  had  told  him  the  truth,  he  would 
not  have  believed  her  for  a  moment. 


198  BERTHA  GARLAN 

Her  sister-in-law  came  into  the  room,  and  Bertha 
had  to  relate  all  about  her  stay  in  Vienna. 

To  her  own  surprise  she  succeeded  very  well  in 
cleverly  blending  truth  with  fiction.  She  told  how 
she  had  been  with  her  cousin  to  the  public  gardens 
and  the  picture  gallery;  on  Sunday  she  had  heard 
Mass  at  St.  Stephen's  Church;  she  had  met  in  the 
street  a  teacher  from  the  Conservatoire ;  and  finally 
she  even  invented  a  funny  married  couple,  whom 
she  represented  as  having  had  supper  one  evening 
at  her  cousin's.  The  further  she  proceeded  with 
her  lies,  the  greater  was  her  desire  to  tell  all  about 
Emil  as  well,  and  to  inform  them  how  she  had  met 
in  the  street  the  celebrated  violinist  Lindbach,  who 
had  formerly  been  with  her  at  the  Conservatoire, 
and  how  she  had  had  a  conversation  with  him.  But 
a  vague  fear  of  not  being  able  to  stop  at  the  right 
time  caused  her  to  refrain  from  making  any  refer- 
ence to  him. 

Frau  Albertine  Garlan  sat  on  the  sofa  in  an  atti- 
tude of  profound  lassitude,  and  nodded  her  head. 
Elly  stood,  as  usual,  by  the  piano,  her  head  resting 
on  her  hands,  and  she  gazed  open-eyed  at  her  aunt. 

From  her  sister-in-law's  Bertha  went  on  to  the 
Mahlmanns'  and  gave  the  twins  their  music  lesson. 
The  finger  exercises  and  scales  which  she  had  to 
hear  were  at  first  intolerable  to  her,  but  finally  she 
ceased  to  listen  to  them  at  all,  and  let  her  thoughts 
wander  at  will.  The  cheerful  mood  of  the  morning 
had  vanished,  Vienna  seemed  to  her  to  be  infinitely 


BERTHA  GARLAN  199 

distant,  a  strange  feeling  of  disquietude  came  over 
her  and  suddenly  the  fear  seized  her  that  Emil 
might  go  away  immediately  after  his  concert.  That 
would  indeed  be  terrible!  He  might  go  away  all 
of  a  sudden  without  her  having  seen  him  once  more 
' — and  who  could  say  when  he  would  return? 

She  wondered  whether  it  would  not  be  well  to 
arrange  to  be  in  Vienna  in  any  case  on  the  day  of 
the  concert.  She  had  to  admit  to  herself  that  she 
had  not  the  slightest  longing  to  hear  him  play.  In- 
deed, it  seemed  to  her  that  she  would  not  in  the 
least  mind  if  he  was  not  a  violin  virtuoso  at  all, 
if  he  was  not  even  an  artist,  but  just  an  ordinary 
kind  of  man — a  bookseller,  or  something  like  that! 
If  she  could  only  have  him  for  herself,  for  herself 
alone!  .  .  . 

Meanwhile  the  twins  played  through  their  scales. 
It  was  surely  a  terrible  doom  to  have  to  sit  there 
and  give  these  untalented  brats  music  lessons.  How 
was  it  that  she  had  been  in  good  spirits  only  just  a 
little  earlier  that  day?  .  .  . 

Ah,  those  beautiful  days  in  Vienna!  Quite  irre- 
spective of  Emil — the  entire  freedom,  the  saunter- 
ing about  the  streets,  the  walks  in  the  public  gar- 
dens. .  .  .  To  be  sure,  she  had  spent  more  money 
during  her  stay  than  she  could  afford;  two  dozen 
lessons  to  the  Mahlmann  twins  would  not  recoup 
her  the  outlay.  .  .  .  And  now,  here  she  had  to 
come  back  again  to  her  relations,  to  give  music  les- 
sons, and  really  it  might  even  be  necessary  to  look 


200  BERTHA  GARLAN 

about  for  fresh  pupils,  for  her  accounts  would  not 
balance  at  all  that  year!  .  .  .  Ah,  what  a  life!  .  .  . 

In  the  street  Bertha  met  Frau  Martin,  who  asked 
her  how  she  had  enjoyed  herself  in  Vienna.  At 
the  same  time  she  threw  Bertha  a  glance  which 
clearly  said : 

"Fm  quite  sure  you  don't  enjoy  life  so  much  as 
I  do  with  my  husband !" 

Bertha  had  an  overwhelming  desire  to  shriek  in 
that  person's  face : 

"I  have  had  a  much  better  time  than  you  think! 
I  have  been  with  an  enchanting  young  man  who  is 
a  thousand  times  more  charming  than  your  hus- 
band !  And  I  understand  how  to  enjoy  life  quite  as 
well  as  you  do!  You  have  only  a  husband,  but  I 
have  a  lover! — a  lover! — a  lover!"  .  .  . 

Yet,  of  course,  she  said  nothing  of  the  kind,  but 
related  how  she  had  gone  with  her  cousin  and  the 
children  for  a  walk  in  the  public  gardens. 

Bertha  also  met  with  some  other  ladies  with 
whom  she  was  superficially  acquainted.  She  felt 
that  her  mental  attitude  towards  those  ladies  had 
undergone  a  complete  change  since  her  visit  to 
Vienna — that  she  was  freer,  superior.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  she  was  the  only  woman  in  the  town 
with  any  experience,  and  she  was  almost  sorry  that 
nobody  knew  anything  about  it,  for  although,  pub- 
licly, they  would  have  despised  her,  in  their  hearts 
all  those  women  would  have  been  filled  with  unut- 
terable envy  of  her. 


BERTHA  GARLAN  201 

And  if,  after  all,  they  had  known  who.  .  .  .  Al- 
though in  that  hole  of  a  town  there  were  certainly 
many  who  had  not  so  much  as  heard  Emil's  name ! 
If  only  there  was  some  one  in  the  world  to  whom 
she  could  open  her  heart !  Frau  Rupius — ^yes,  there 
was  Frau  Rupius!  .  .  .  But,  of  course,  she  was  in 
the  habit  of  going  away,  of  taking  trips !  .  .  .  And, 
to  tell  the  truth,  thought  Bertha,  that  was  also  a 
matter  of  indifference  to  her.  She  would  only  like 
to  know  how  things  would  eventually  turn  out  so  far 
as  she  and  Emil  were  concerned,  she  would  like  to 
know  how  matters  actually  stood.  It  was  the  un- 
certainty that  was  causing  her  that  terrible  uneasi- 
ness. .  .  .  Had  she  only  had  a  love  affair  with  him, 
after  all?  .  .  .  Ah,  but  why  had  she  not  gone  to 
him  once  again?  .  .  .  But,  of  course,  that  was 
quite  impossible!  .  .  .  That  letter.  .  .  ,  He  didn't 
want  to  see  her,  that  was  it !  .  .  .  But  then,  on  the 
other  hand,  he  had  sent  her  flowers.  .  .  . 

And  now  she  was  back  again  with  her  relations. 
Richard  was  going  to  meet  her  and  embrace  her  in 
his  playful  manner.    She  pushed  him  away. 

"Impudent  boy!"  she  thought  to  herself.  **I 
know  very  well  what  he  means  by  doing  that,  al- 
though he  himself  does  not  know.  I  understand 
these  things — I  have  a  lover  in  Vienna!  .  .  ." 

The  music  lesson  took  its  course  and,  at  the  end 
of  it,  Elly  and  Richard  played  as  a  duet  Beetho- 
ven's *   "Festival   Overture"   which   was   intended 

♦  Query— Brahms  (translator's  note). 


203  BERTHA  GARLAN 

by  them  to  be  a  birthday  surprise  for  their  father. 

Bertha  thought  only  of  Emil.  She  was  nearly 
being  driven  out  of  her  mind  by  this  wretched 
strumming  ...  no,  it  was  not  possible  to  live  on 
like  that,  whichever  way  she  looked  at  it !  .  .  .  She 
was  still  a  young  woman,  too.  .  .  .  Yes,  that  was 
the  secret  of  it  all,  the  real  secret.  .  .  .  She  would 
not  be  able  to  live  on  like  that  any  more.  .  .  .  And 
yet  it  would  not  do  for  her  .  .  .  any  other  man. 
.  .  .  How  could  she  ever  think  of  such  a  thing! 
.  .  .  What  a  very  wicked  person  she  must  be,  after 
all!  Who  could  tell  whether  it  had  not  been  that 
trait  in  her  character  which  Emil,  with  his  great 
experience  of  life,  had  perceived  in  her,  and  which 
had  been  the  cause  of  his  being  unwilling  to  see  her 
any  more?  .  .  .  Ah,  those  women  surely  had  the 
best  of  it  who  took  everything  easily,  and,  when 
abandoned  by  one  man,  immediately  turned  to  an- 
other. .  .  .  But  stay,  whatever  could  it  be  that  was 
putting  such  thoughts  as  these  into  her  head  ?  Had 
Emil,  then,  abandoned  her?  ...  In  three  or  four 
days  she  would  be  in  Vienna  again;  with  him;  in 
his  arms!  .  .  .  And  had  she  been  able  to  live  for 
three  years  as  she  had  done?  .  .  .  Three? — Six 
years — her  whole  life!  .  .  .  If  he  only  knew  that, 
if  he  only  believed  that! 

Her  sister-in-law  came  into  the  room  and  invited 
Bertha  to  have  supper  with  them  that  evening.  .  .  . 
Yes,  that  was  her  only  distraction :  to  go  out  to  din- 


BERTHA  GARLAN  203 

ner  or  supper  occasionally  at  some  other  house  than 
her  own ! 

If  only  there  was  a  man  in  the  town  to  whom 
she  could  talk!  .  .  .  And  Frau  Rupius  was  going 
off  on  her  travels  and  leaving  her  husband.  .  .  . 
Hadn't  a  love  affair,  maybe,  something  to  do  with 
that,  Bertha  wondered. 

The  music  lesson  came  to  an  end  and  Bertha  took 
her  leave.  In  the  presence  of  her  sister-in-law,  too, 
she  noticed  that  she  had  that  feeling  of  superiority, 
almost  of  compassion,  which  had  come  over  her 
when  she  had  seen  the  other  ladies.  Yes,  she  was 
certain  that  she  would  not  give  up  that  one  hour  with 
Emil  for  a  whole  life  such  as  her  sister-in-law  led. 
Moreover,  as  she  thought  to  herself  as  she  was 
walking  homewards,  she  had  not  been  able  to  arrive 
at  a  complete  perception  of  her  happiness,  which, 
indeed,  had  all  slipped  by  so  quickly.  And  then 
that  room,  that  whole  house,  that  frightful  picture. 
.  .  .  No,  no,  it  was  all  really  hideous  rather  than 
anything  else.  After  all,  the  only  really  beautiful 
moments  had  been  those  which  had  followed,  when 
Emil  had  accompanied  her  to  her  hotel  in  the  car- 
riage, and  her  head  had  rested  on  his  breast.  .  .  . 

Ah,  he  loved  her  indeed ;  of  course,  not  so  deeply 
as  she  loved  him;  but  how  could  that  be  possible? 
What  a  number  of  experiences  he  had  had  in  his 
life!  She  thought  of  that  now  without  any  feel- 
ing of  jealousy ;  rather,  she  felt  a  slight  pity  for  him 


X>4  BERTHA  GARLAN 

in  having  to  carry  so  much  in  his  memory.  It  was 
quite  evident  from  his  appearance  that  he  was  not  a 
man  who  took  Hfe  easily.  .  .  .  He  was  not  of  a 
cheerful  disposition.  .  .  .  All  the  hours  which  she 
had  spent  with  him  seemed  in  her  recollection  as  if 
encompassed  by  an  incomprehensible  melancholy. 
If  she  only  knew  all  about  him !  He  had  told  her  so 
little  about  himself  .  .  .  nothing,  indeed,  absolutely 
nothing!  .  .  .  But  how  would  that  have  been  pos- 
sible on  the  very  first  day  that  they  had  met  again  ? 
Ah!  if  only  he  really  knew  her!  If  she  were 
only  not  so  shy,  so  incapable  of  expressing  her- 
self! 

She  would  have  to  write  to  him  again  before 
seeing  him.  .  .  .  Yes,  she  would  write  to  him  that 
very  day.  What  a  stupid  concoction  it  was,  that 
letter  which  she  had  sent  him  on  the  previous  day! 
In  truth,  he  could  not  have  sent  her  any  other  an- 
swer than  that  which  she  had  received.  She  would 
not  write  to  him  either  defiantly  or  humbly.  .  .  . 
No,  after  all,  she  was  his  beloved !  She  who,  as  she 
walked  along  the  streets  here  in  the  little  town,  was 
regarded  by  every  one  who  met  her  as  one  of  them- 
selves .  .  .  she  was  the  beloved  of  that  magnificent 
man  whom  she  had  worshipped  since  her  girlhood. 
How  unreservedly  and  imaffectedly  she  had  g^ven 
herself  to  him — ^not  one  of  all  the  women  she  knew 
would  have  done  that !  .  .  .  Ah,  and  she  would  do 
still  more!  Oh,  yes!  She  would  even  live  with 
him  without  being  married  to  him,  and  she  would 


BERTHA  GARLAN  205 

be  supremely  indifferent  to  what  people  might  say 
.  .  .  she  would  even  be  proud  of  her  action !  And 
later  on  he  would  marry  her,  after  all  ...  of 
course  he  would.  She  was  such  a  capable  house- 
keeper, too.  .  .  .  And  how  much  good  it  would  be 
sure  to  do  him,  after  the  unsettled  existence  which 
he  had  been  leading  during  the  years  of  his  wander- 
ings, to  liv^  in  a  well-ordered  house,  with  a  good 
wife  by  his  side,  who  had  never  loved  any  man  but 
him. 

And  now  she  was  home  again.  Before  dinner 
was  served  she  had  made  all  her  preparations  for 
writing  the  letter.  She  ate  her  dinner  with  feverish 
impatience;  she  scarcely  allowed  herself  time  to  cut 
up  Fritz's  dinner  and  give  it  to  him.  Then, 
instead  of  undressing  him  herself  and  putting 
him  to  bed  for  his  afternoon  sleep,  as  she  was 
always  accustomed  to  do,  she  told  the  maid  to  at- 
tend to  him. 

She  sat  down  at  the  desk  and  the  words  flowed 
without  effort  from  her  pen,  as  though  she  had  long 
ago  composed  in  her  head  the  whole  letter. 

"My  Emil,  my  beloved,  my  all  ! 

"Since  I  have  returned  home  again  I  have  been 
possessed  by  an  overwhelming  desire  to  write  to 
you,  and  I  should  like  to  say  to  you  over  and  over 
again  how  happy,  how  infinitely  happy,  you  have 
made  me.  I  was  ang^  with  you  at  first  when  you 
wrote  and  said  you  could  not  see  me  on  Sunday.  I 


ao6  BERTHA  GARLAN 

must  confess  that  to  you  as  well,  for  I  feel  that  I 
am  under  the  necessity  of  telling  you  everything 
that  passes  in  my  mind.  Unfortunately,  I  could  not 
do  so  while  we  were  together;  I  had  not. the  power 
of  expressing  myself,  but  now  I  can  find  the  words 
and  you  must,  I  fear,  put  up  with  my  boring  you 
with  this  scribble.  My  dearest,  my  only  one — ^ycs, 
that  you  are,  although  it  seems  to  me  that  you  were 
not  quite  so  certain  of  it  as  you  ought  to  have  been.  « 
I  beseech  you  to  believe  that  it  is  true.  You  see,  I 
have  no  means,  of  course,  wherewith  to  tdl  you  this, 
other  than  these  words.  Emil,  I  have  never,  never 
loved  any  man,  but  you — and  I  will  never  love  any 
other.  Do  with  me  as  you  will.  I  have  no  ties  in 
the  little  town  where  I  am  living  now — on  the  con- 
trary, indeed,  I  often  find  it  a  terrible  thing  to  be 
obliged  to  live  my  life  here.  I  will  move  to  Vienna, 
so  as  to  be  near  you.  Oh,  do  not  fear  that  I  will 
disturb  you!  I  am  not  alone,  you  see,  I  have  my 
boy,  whom  I  idolise.  I  will  cut  down  my  expenses, 
and,  in  the  long  run,  why  shouldn't  I  succeed  in  find- 
ing pupils  even  in  a  large  town  like  Vienna  just 
as  I  do  here,  perhaps,  indeed,  even  more  easily  than 
here,  and  in  that  way  improve  my  position?  Yet 
that  is  a  secondary  consideration,  for  I  may  tell  you 
that  it  has  long  been  my  intention  to  move  to  Vienna 
if  only  for  the  sake  of  my  dearly  loved  boy,  when 
he  grows  older. 

"You  cannot  imagine  how  stupid  the  men  are 
here !    And  I  can  no  longer  bear  to  look  at  any  one 


BERTHA  GARLAN  207 

of  them  at  all,  since  I  have  again  had  the  happiness 
of  being  in  your  company. 

"Write  to  me,  my  dearest!  Yet  you  need  not 
trouble  to  send  me  a  whole  long  letter.  In  any  case 
I  shall  be  coming  to  Vienna  again  this  week.  I 
would  have  had  to  do  so  in  any  event,  because  of 
some  pressing  commissions,  and  you  will  then  be 
able  to  tell  me  everything — just  what  you  think  of 
my  proposal,  and  what  you  consider  best  for  me 
to  do.  But  you  must  promise  me  this,  that,  when 
I  live  in  Vienna,  you  will  often  visit  me.  Of  course, 
no  one  need  know  anything  about  it,  if  you  do  not 
care  that  they  should.  But  you  may  believe  me — 
every  day  on  which  I  may  be  allowed  to  see  you 
will  be  a  red-letter  day  for  me  and  that,  in  all 
the  world,  there  is  nobody  who  loves  you  in  such  a 
true  and  life-long  manner  as  I  do. 

"Farewell,  my  beloved! 

"Your 

"Bertha." 

She  did  not  venture  to  read  over  what  she  had 
written,  but  left  the  house  at  once  so  as  to  take  the 
letter  herself  to  the  railway  station.  There  she  saw 
Frau  Rupius,  a  few  paces  in  front  of  her,  ac- 
companied by  a  maid  who  was  carrying  a  small 
valise. 

What  could  that  mean? 

She  caught  up  Frau  Rupius,  just  as  the  latter 
was  going  into  the  waiting  room.     The  maid  laid 


208  BERTHA  GARLAN 

the  valise  on  the  large  table  in  the  centre  of  the 
room,  kissed  her  mistress's  hand,  and  departed. 

"Frau  Rupius!"  exclaimed  Bertha,  a  note  of  in- 
quiry in  her  voice. 

"I  heard  that  you  had  returned  already.  Well, 
how  did  you  get  on?"  said  Frau  Rupius,  extending 
her  hand  in  a  friendly  way. 

"Very  well — very  well  indeed,  but " 

"Why,  you  are  gazing  at  me  as  though  you  were 
quite  frightened!  No,  Frau  Bertha,  I  am  coming 
back  again — no  later  than  to-morrow.  The  long 
journey  that  I  had  in  view  came  to  nothing,  so  I 
have  had  to— settle  on  something  else." 

"Something  else?" 

"Why,  of  course,  staying  at  home,  I  shall  be 
back  again  to-morrow.    Well,  how  did  you  get  on  ?" 

"I  told  you  just  now — ^very  well." 

"Yes,  of  course,  you  did  tell  me  before.  But  I 
see  you  are  going  to  post  that  letter,  are  you 
not?" 

And  then  for  the  first  time  Bertha  noticed  that 
she  was  still  holding  the  letter  to  Emil  in  her  hand. 
She  gazed  at  it  with  such  enraptured  eyes  that  Frau 
Rupius  smiled. 

"Perhaps  you  would  like  me  to  take  it  with  me? 
It  is  to  go  to  Vienna,  I  presume?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Bertha,  and  then  she  added 
resolutely,  as  though  she  was  glad  to  be  able  to  say 
it  out  at  last :  "to  him." 

Frau  Rupius  nodded  her  head,  as  if  satisfied 


BERTHA  GARLAN  209 

But  she  neither  looked  at  Bertha  nor  made  any 
reply. 

"I  am  so  glad  that  I  have  met  you  again!"  said 
Bertha.  "You  are  the  only  woman  here,  you  know, 
whom  I  trust ;  indeed,  you  are  the  only  woman  who 
could  understand  anything  like  this." 

"Ah,  no,"  said  Frau  Rupius  to  herself,  as  though 
she  were  dreaming. 

"I  do  envy  you  so,  because  to-day  in  a  few  short 
hours  you  will  see  Vienna  again.  How  fortunate 
you  are!" 

Frau  Rupius  had  sat  down  in  one  of  the  leather 
armchairs  by  the  table.  She  rested  her  chin  on 
her  hand,  looked  at  Bertha,  and  said : 

"It  seems  to  me,  on  the  other  hand,  that  it  is  you 
who  are  fortunate." 

"No,  I  must,  you  see,  remain  here." 

"Why  ?"  asked  Frau  Rupius.  "You  are  free,  you 
know.  But  go  and  put  that  letter  into  the  box  at 
once,  or  I  shall  see  the  address,  and  so  learn  more 
than  you  wish  to  tell  me." 

"I  will,  though  not  because  of  that — ^but  I  should 
be  glad  if  the  letter  went  by  this  train  and  not 
later." 

Bertha  hurried  into  the  vestibule,  posted  the  let- 
ter and  at  once  returned  to  Anna,  who  was  still 
sitting  in  the  same  quiet  attitude. 

"I  might  have  told  you  everything,  you  know," 
Bertha  went  on  to  say ;  "indeed  I  might  say  that  I 
wished  to  tell  you  before  I  actually  went  to  Vienna 


3IO  BERTHA  GARLAN 

.  .  .  but — just  fancy,  isn't  it  strange?  I  did  not 
venture  to  do  so." 

"Moreover  at  that  time,  too,  there  probably  had 
not  been  anything  to  tell,"  said  Frau  Rupius,  with- 
out looking  at  Bertha. 

Bertha  was  amazed.  How  clever  that  woman 
was!     She  could  see  into  everybody's  thoughts! 

"No,  at  that  time  there  had  not  been  anything 
to  tell,"  she  repeated,  gazing  at  Frau  Rupius  with  a 
kind  of  reverence.  "Just  think — you  will  probably 
find  it  hard  to  believe  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you 
now,  but  I  should  feel  a  liar  if  I  kept  it  secret." 

"Wen?" 

Bertha  had  sat  down  on  a  seat  beside  Frau 
Rupius,  and  she  spoke  in  a  lower  tone,  for  the  vesti- 
bule door  was  standing  open. 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you  this,  Anna:  that  I  do  not 
in  the  least  feel  that  I  have  done  anything  wicked, 
not  even  anything  immoral." 

"It  wouldn't  be  a  very  clever  thing,  either,  if  you 
had." 

"Yes,  you  are  quite  right.  .  .  .  What  I  really 
meant  to  say  was  rather  that  it  seems  to  me  as 
though  I  had  done  something  quite  good,  as 
if  I  had  done  something  outstanding.  Yes,  Frau 
Rupius,  the  fact  of  the  matter  is,  I  have  been  proud 
of  myself  ever  since." 

"Well,  there  is  probably  no  reason  for  that 
either,"  said  Frau  Rupius,  as  if  lost  in  thought, 
stroking  Bertha's  hand,  which  lay  upon  the  table. 


BERTHA  GARLAN  211 

"I  am  aware  of  that,  of  course,  and  yet  I  am 
90  proud  and  seem  quite  diflFerent  from  all  the 
women  whom  I  know.  You  see  if  you  knew  .  .  . 
if  you  were  acquainted  with  him — it  is  such  a 
strange  affair!  You  mustn't  think,  let  me  tell  you, 
that  it  is  an  acquaintanceship  which  I  have  made 
recently — quite  the  contrary;  I  have  been  in  love 
with  him,  you  must  know,  ever  since  I  was  quite  a 
young  girl,  no  less  than  twelve  years  ago.  For  a 
long  time  we  had  completely  lost  sight  of  one  an- 
other, and  now — isn't  it  wonderful  ? — now  he  is  my 
.  .  .  my  .  .  .  my  .  .  .  lover!" 

She  had  said  it  at  last.  Her  whole  face  was 
radiant. 

Frau  Rupius  threw  her  a  glance  in  which  could 
be  detected  a  little  scorn  and  a  great  deal  of  kind- 
liness. 

"I  am  glad  that  you  are  happy,"  she  said. 

"How  very  kind  you  are  indeed !  But  then,  you 
see,  on  the  other  hand  again,  it  is  a  dreadful  thing 
that  we  are  so  far  apart  from  one  another;  he,  in 
Vienna;  I,  here — I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  be  able 
to  endure  that.  Moreover,  I  have  ceased  to  feel 
that  I  belong  to  this  place,  least  of  all  to  my  rela- 
tions. If  they  knew  .  .  .  no,  if  they  knew!  How- 
ever, they  would  never  be  able  to  bring  themselves 
to  believe  it.  A  woman  like  my  sister-in-law,  for 
instance — well,  I  am  perfectly  certain  that  she  could 
never  imagine  such  a  thing  to  be  in  any  way  pos- 
sible." 


212  BERTHA  GARLAN 

"But  you  are  really  very  ingenuous!"  said  Frau 
Rupius  suddenly,  almost  with  exasperation.  Then 
she  listened  for  a  moment.  *T  thought  I  could  hear 
the  train  whistling  already." 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  walked  over  to  the  large 
glass  door  leading  on  to  the  platform,  and  looked 
out.  A  porter  came  and  asked  for  the  tickets  in 
order  to  punch  them. 

"The  train  for  Vienna  is  twenty  minutes  late," 
he  remarked,  at  the  same  time. 

Bertha  had  stood  up  and  gone  over  to  Frau 
Rupius. 

"Why  do  you  consider  that  I  am  ingenuous  ?"  she 
asked  shyly. 

"But,  indeed,  you  know  absolutely  nothing  about 
men,"  replied  Frau  Rupius,  as  if  she  were  annoyed. 
**You  haven't,  you  know,  the  slightest  idea  among 
what  kind  of  people  you  are  living,  I  can  assure 
you,  you  have  no  reason  at  all  to  be  proud." 

"I  know,  of  course,  that  it  is  very  stupid  of 
tne. 

"Your  sister-in-law — ^that  is  delightful! — ^your 
sister-in-law !" 

"What  do  you  mean,  then?" 

"I  mean  that  she  has  had  a  lover  too!" 

"Whatever  put  such  an  idea  as  that  into  your 
head!" 

"Well,  she  is  not  the  only  woman  in  this  town." 

"Yes,  there  are  certainly  women  who  ...  but, 
Albertine " 


BERTHA  GARLAN  213 

"And  do  you  know  who  it  was?  That  is  very 
amusingi    It  was  Herr  Klingemann!" 

"No,  that  is  impossible!" 

"Of  course,  it  is  now  a  long  time  ago,  about  ten 
or  eleven  years." 

"But  at  that  time,  by  the  way,  you  yourself  had 
not  come  to  live  here,  Frau  Rupius!" 

"Oh,  I  have  heard  it  from  the  best  source.  It 
was  Herr  Klingemann  himself  who  told  me  about 
it." 

"Herr  Klingemann  himself!  But  is  it  possible 
for  a  man  to  be  so  base  as  all  that !" 

"I  don't  think  there's  the  least  doubt  about  that," 
answered  Frau  Rupius,  sitting  down  on  a  seat  near 
the  door,  whilst  Bertha  remained  standing  beside 
her,  listening  in  amazement  to  her  friend's  words. 
"Yes,  Herr  Klingemann  himself.  ...  As  soon  as 
I  came  to  the  town,  you  must  know,  he  did  me  the 
honour  of  making  violent  love  to  me,  neck  or  noth- 
ing, so  to  speak.  You  know  yourself,  of  course, 
what  a  loathsome  wretch  he  is.  I  laughed  him  to 
scorn,  which  probably  exasperated  him  a  great  deal, 
and  evidently  he  thought  that  he  would  be  able  con- 
clusively to  prove  to  me  how  irresistible  he  was  by 
recounting  all  his  conquests." 

"But  perhaps  he  told  you  some  things  which  were 
not  true." 

"A  great  deal,  probably;  but  this  story,  as  it 
happens,  is  true.  .  .  .  Ah,  what  a  rabble  these  men 
are!" 


214  BERTHA  GARLAN 

There  was  a  note  of  the  deepest  hatred  in  Frau 
Rupius'  voice.  Bertha  was  quite  frightened.  She 
had  never  thought  it  possible  that  Frau  Rupius 
could  have  said  such  things. 

"Yes,  why  shouldn't  you  know  what  kind  of  men 
they  are  amongst  whom  you  are  living?"  continued 
Frau  Rupius. 

"No,  I  would  never  have  thought  it  possible!  If 
my  brother-in-law  knew  about  it! " 

"If  he  knew  about  it?  He  knows  about  it  as 
well  as  you  or  I  do !" 

"What  do  you  say !    No,  no !" 

"Indeed,  he  caught  them  together — you  under- 
stand me!  Herr  Klingemann  and  Albertine!  So 
that,  however  much  inclined  he  might  have  been  to 
make  the  best  of  things,  there  was  no  doubt  pos- 
sible!" 

"But,  for  Heaven's  sake — what  did  he  do,  then  ?" 

"Well,  as  you  can  see  for  yourself,  he  has  not 
turned  her  out!" 

"Well,  yes,  the  children  ...  of  course!" 

"The  children — pooh-pooh !  He  forgave  her'  for 
the  sake  of  convenience — and  chiefly  because  he 
could  do  as  he  liked  after  that.  You  can  see  for 
yourself  how  he  treats  her.  When  all  is  said  and 
done,  she  is  but  little  better  than  his  servant;  you 
know  as  well  as  I  do  in  what  a  miserable,  brow- 
beaten way  she  slinks  about.  He  has  brought  it  to 
this,  that,  ever  since  that  moment,  she  has  always 
had  to  look  upon  herself  as  a  woman  who  has  beea 


BERTHA  GARLAN  215 

treated  with  mercy.  And  I  believe  she  has  even  a 
perpetual  fear  that  he  is  reserving  the  punishment 
for  some  future  day.  But  it  is  stupid  ef  her  to  be 
afraid  of  that,  for  he  wouldn't  look  out  for  an- 
other housekeeper  for  anything.  .  .  .  Ah,  my  dear 
Frau  Bertha,  we  are  not  by  any  means  angels,  as 
you  know  now  from  your  own  experiences,  but  men 
are  infamous  so  long" — she  seemed  to  hesitate  to 
complete  the  phrase — "so  long  as  they  are  men." 

Bertha  was  as  though  crushed;  not  so  much  on 
accoimt  of  the  things  which  Frau  Rupius  had  told 
her  as  on  account  of  the  manner  in  which  she  had 
done  so.  She  seemed  to  have  become  a  quite  dif- 
ferent woman,  and  Bertha  was  pained  at  heart. 

The  door  leading  to  the  platform  was  opened 
and  the  low,  incessant  tinkling  of  the  telegraph  was 
heard.  Frau  Rupius  stood  up  slowly,  her  features 
assumed  a  mild  expression,  and,  stretching  out  her 
hand  to  Bertha,  she  said: 

"Forgive  me,  I  was  only  a  little  bit  vexed. 
Things  can  be  also  very  nice;  of  course,  there  are 
certainly  decent  men  in  the  world  as  well  as  others. 
Oh,  yes,  things  can  be  very  nice,  no  doubt." 

She  looked  out  on  to  the  railway  lines  and  seemed 
to  be  following  the  iron  track  into  the  distance. 
Then  she  went  on  to  say  with  that  same  soft,  har- 
monious voice  which  appealed  so  strongly  to 
Bertha : 

"I  shall  be  home  again  to-morrow  evening.  .  .  . 
Oh,  yes,  of  course,  my  travelling  case !" 


2i6  BERTHA  GARLAN 

She  hurried  to  the  table  and  took  her  valise. 

"It  would  have  been  a  terrible  catastrophe  if  I 
had  forgotten  that !  I  cannot  travel  without  my  ten 
bottles !  Well,  good-bye !  And  don't  forget,  though, 
that  all  I  have  been  telling  you  happened  ten  years 
years  ago." 

The  train  came  into  the  station.  Frau  Rupius 
hurried  to  a  compartment,  got  in,  and,  looking  out 
of  the  window,  nodded  affably  to  Bertha.  The 
latter  endeavoured  to  respond  as  cheerfully,  but 
she  felt  that  her  wave  of  the  hand  to  the  departing 
Frau  Rupius  was  stiff  and  forced. 

Slowly  she  walked  homewards  again.  In  vain  she 
sought  to  persuade  herself  that  all  that  she  had  heard 
was  not  the  least  concern  of  hers;  the  long  past 
affair  of  her  sister-in-law,  the  mean  conduct  of  her 
brother-in-law,  the  baseness  of  Klingemann,  the 
strange  whims  of  that  incomprehensible  Frau  Ru- 
pius ;  all  had  nothing  to  do  with  her.  She  could  not 
explain  it  to  herself,  but  somehow,  it  seemed  to  her 
as  though  all  these  things  were  mysteriously  related 
to  her  own  adventure. 

Suddenly  the  gnawing  doubts  appeared  again. 
.  .  .  Why  hadn't  Emil  wanted  to  see  her  again? 
Not  on  the  following  day,  or  on  the  second  or  on 
the  third  day?  How  was  it?  He  had  attained  his 
object,  that  was  sufficient  for  him.  .  .  .  However 
had  she  been  able  to  write  him  that  mad,  shameless 
letter? 

And  a  thrill  of  fear  arose  within  her.  ...  If  he 


BERTHA  GARLAN  217 

were  to  show  her  letter  to  another  woman,  maybe 
.  .  .  make  merry  over  it  with  her.  .  .  .  No,  how  on 
earth  could  such  an  idea  come  into  her  head?  It 
was  ridiculous  even  to  think  of  such  a  thing!  .  .  . 
It  was  possible,  of  course,  that  he  would  not  answer 
the  letter  and  would  throw  it  into  the  wastepaper 
basket — but  nothing  worse  than  that.  .  .  .  No. 
.  .  .  However,  she  must  just  have  patience,  and  in 
two  or  three  days  all  would  be  decided.  She  could 
not  say  anything  with  certainty,  but  she  felt  that 
this  unendurable  confusion  within  her  mind  could 
not  last  much  longer.  The  question  would  have  to 
be  settled,  somehow. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  she  again  went  for  a  walk 
amongst  the  vine-trellises  with  Fritz,  but  she  did  not 
go  into  the  cemetery.  Then  she  walked  slowly  down 
the  hill  and  sauntered  along  under  the  chestnut 
trees.  She  chatted  with  Fritz,  asked  him  about  all 
sorts  of  things,  listened  to  his  stories  and,  as  her 
frequent  custom  was,  instilled  some  knowledge  into 
his  head  on  several  subjects.  She  tried  to  explain 
to  him  how  far  the  sun  is  distant  from  the  earth, 
how  the  rain  comes  from  the  clouds,  and  how  the 
bunches  of  grapes  grow,  from  which  wine  is  made. 
She  was  not  annoyed,  as  often  happened,  if  the  boy 
did  not  pay  proper  attention  to  her,  because  she 
realized  well  enough  that  she  was  only  talking  for 
the  sake  of  distracting  her  own  thoughts. 

Then  she  walked  down  the  hill,  under  the  chest- 
nut trees,  and  so  back  to  the  town.    Presently  she 


2i8  BERTHA  GARLAN 

saw  Herr  Klingemann  approaching,  but  the  fact 
made  not  the  slightest  impression  upon  her.  He 
spoke  to  her  with  forced  politeness ;  all  the  time  he 
held  his  straw  hat  in  his  hand  and  affected  a  great 
and  almost  gloomy  gravity.  He  seemed  very 
changed,  and  she  observed,  too,  that  his  clothes  in 
reality  were  not  at  all  elegant,  but  positively  shabby. 
Suddenly  she  could  not  help  picturing  him  tenderly 
embracing  her  sister-in-law,  and  she  felt  extremely 
disgusted. 

Later  on  she  sat  down  on  a  bench  and  watched 
Fritz  playing  with  some  other  children,  all  the  time 
making  an  effort  to  keep  her  attention  fixed  on  him 
so  that  she  would  not  have  to  think  of  anything 
else. 

In  the  evening  she  went  to  her  relatives.  She 
had  a  sensation  as  though  she  had  had  a  presenti- 
ment of  everything  long  before,  for  otherwise  how 
could  she  have  failed  to  have  been  struck  before  this 
by  the  kind  of  relations  which  existed  between  her 
brother-in-law  and  his  wife?  The  former  again 
made  jocular  remarks  about  Bertha's  visit  to  Vienna. 
He  asked  when  she  was  going  there  again,  and 
whether  they  would  not  soon  be  hearing  of  her  en- 
gagement. Bertha  entered  into  the  joke,  and  told 
how  at  least  a  dozen  men  had  proposed  to  her, 
amongst  others,  a  Government  official;  but  she  felt 
that  her  lips  alone  were  speaking  and  smiling,  while 
her  soul  remained  serious  and  silent. 

Richard  sat  beside  her,  and  his  knee  touched  hers. 


BERTHA  GARL^\N  219 

by  chance.  And  as  he  was  pouring  out  a  glass  of 
wine  for  her  and  she  seized  his  hand  to  stop  him, 
she  felt  a  comforting  glow  steal  up  her  arm  as  far 
as  her  shoulder.  It  made  her  feel  happy.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  she  was  being  unfaithful  to  Emil.  And 
that  was  quite  as  she  wished;  she  wanted  Emil  to 
know  that  her  senses  were  on  the  alert,  that  she  was 
just  the  same  as  other  women,  and  that  she  could 
accept  the  embraces  of  her  nephew  in  just  the  same 
way  as  she  did  his.  .  .  .  Ah,  yes,  if  he  only  knew  it ! 
That  was  what  she  ought  to  have  written  in  her  let- 
ter, not  that  humble,  longing  letter!  .  .  . 

But  even  while  these  thoughts  were  surging 
through  her  mind,  she  remained  serious  in  the 
depths  of  her  soul,  and  a  feeling  of  solitude  actually 
came  over  her,  for  she  knew  that  no  one  could  imag- 
ine what  was  taking  place  within  her. 

Afterwards,  when  she  was  walking  homewards 
through  the  deserted  streets,  she  met  an  officer  whom 
she  knew  by  sight.  With  him  he  had  a  pretty  woman 
whom  she  had  never  seen  before. 

"Evidently  a  woman  from  Vienna !"  she  thought, 
for  she  knew  that  the  officers  often  had  such  visi- 
tors. 

She  had  a  feeling  of  envy  towards  the  woman; 
she  wished  that  she  was  also  being  accompanied  by 
a  handsome  young  officer  at  that  moment.  .  .  .  And 
why  not?  .  .  .  After  all,  everybody  was  like 
that.  .  .  .  And  now  she  herself  had  ceased  to  be  a 
respectable  woman.    Emil,  of  course,  did  not  believe 


220  BERTHA  GARLAN 

that,  any  more  than  anybody  else,  and,  anyhow,  it 
was  all  just  the  same ! 

She  reached  home,  undressed  and  went  to  bed. 
But  the  air  was  too  sultry.  She  got  up  again,  went 
to  the  window  and  opened  it.  Outside,  all  was  dark. 
Perhaps  somebody  could  see  her  standing  there  at 
the  window,  could  see  her  skin  gleaming  through  the 
darkness.  .  .  .  Indeed,  she  would  not  mind  at  all  if 
anybody  did  see  her  like  that!  .  .  .  Then  she  lay 
down  on  the  bed  again.  .  .  .  Ah,  yes,  she  was  no 
better  than  any  of  the  others!  And  there  was  no 
good  reason  either  why  she  should  be.  .  .  . 

Her  thoughts  grew  indistinct.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  was 
the  cause  of  it  all,  he  had  brought  her  to  this,  he  had 
just  taken  her  like  a  woman  of  the  street — and  then 
cast  her  off !  .  .  .  Ah,  it  was  shameful,  shameful ! — 
how  base  men  were !  And  yet  ...  it  was  delight- 
ful. .  .  . 

She  fell  asleep. 


{ 


A  WARM  rain  was  gently  falling  the  next  morn- 
ing. Thus  Bertha  was  able  to  endure  her  immense 
impatience  more  easily  than  if  the  sun  had  been 
blazing  down.  She  felt  as  though  during  her  sleep 
much  had  been  smoothed  out  within  her.  In  the 
soft  grey  of  the  morning  everything  seemed  so  sim- 
ple and  so  utterly  commonplace.  On  the  morrow 
she  would  receive  the  letter  she  was  expecting,  and 
the  present  day  was  just  like  a  hundred  others. 

She  gave  her  pupils  their  music  lessons.  She  was 
very  strict  with  her  nephew  that  day  and  rapped  him 
on  the  knuckles  when  he  played  unbearably  badly. 
He  was  a  lazy  pupil — ^that  was  all. 

In  the  afternoon  she  was  struck  by  an  idea,  which 
seemed  to  herself  to  be  extremely  praiseworthy.  She 
had  for  a  long  time  past  intended  to  teach  Fritz  how 
to  read,  and  she  would  make  a  start  that  very  day. 
For  a  whole  hour  she  slaved  away,  instilling  a  few 
letters  into  his  head. 

The  rain  still  kept  falling;  it  was  a  pity  that  she 
could  not  go  for  a  walk.  The  afternoon  would  be 
long,  very  long.  Surely  she  ought  to  go  and  see 
Herr  Rupius  without  further  delay.  It  was  too  bad 
of  her  that  she  had  not  called  on  him  since  her  re- 
turn from  Vienna.     It  was  quite  possible  that  he 

221 


222  BERTHA  GARLAN 

would  feel  somewhat  ashamed  of  himself  in  her 
presence,  because  just  lately  he  had  been  using  such 
big  words,  and  now  Anna  was  still  with  him,  after 
all.  .  .  . 

Bertha  left  the  house.  In  spite  of  the  rain,  she 
walked,  first  of  all,  out  into  the  open  country.  It 
was  long  since  she  had  been  so  tranquil  as  she  was 
that  day;  she  rejoiced  in  the  day  without  agitation, 
without  fear,  and  without  expectation.  Oh,  if  it 
could  be  always  like  that !  She  was  astcmished  at  the 
indifference  with  which  she  could  think  of  Emit 
She  would  be  more  than  content  if  she  should  not 
hear  another  word  from  him,  and  could  continue  in 
her  present  state  of  tranquillity  forever.  .  .  .  Yes, 
it  was  good  and  pleasant  to  be  like  that — to  live  in 
the  little  town,  to  give  the  few  music  lessons,  which, 
after  all,  required  no  great  effort,  to  educate  her 
boy,  to  teach  him  to  read,  to  write,  and  to  count! 
Were  her  experiences  of  the  last  few  days,  she  asked 
herself,  worth  so  much  anxiety — ^nay,  so  much  hu- 
miliation? No,  she  was  not  intended  for  such 
things.  It  seemed  as  though  the  din  of  the  great 
city,  which  had  not  disturbed  her  on  her  last  visit, 
was  now  for  the  first  time  ringing  in  her  ears,  and 
she  rejoiced  in  the  beautiful  calm  which  encom- 
passed her  in  her  present  surroundings. 

Thus  the  state  of  profound  lassitude  into  which 
her  soul  had  fallen  after  the  unaccustomed  agita- 
tions of  the  last  few  days  appeared  to  Bertha  as  a 
state  of  tranquillity  that  would  be  final.  .  .  .  And 


BERTHA  GARLAN  223 

yet,  only  a  short  time  later,  when  she  was  wending 
her  way  back  to  the  town,  the  internal  quietude 
gradually  disappeared,  and  vague  forebodings  of 
fresh  agitations  and  sorrows  awoke  within  her. 

The  sight  of  a  young  couple  who  passed  her, 
pressed  close  to  one  another  under  an  open  umbrella, 
aroused  in  her  a  yearning  for  Emil.  She  did  not 
resist  it,  for  she  already  realized  that  everything 
within  her  was  in  such  a  state  of  upheaval  that  every 
breath  brought  some  fresh  and  generally  unexpected 
thing  on  to  the  surface  of  her  soul. 

It  was  growing  dusk  when  Bertha  entered  Herr 
Rupius*  room.  He  was  sitting  at  the  table,  with  a 
portfolio  of  pictures  before  him.  The  hanging  lamp 
was  lighted. 

He  looked  up  and  returned  her  greeting. 

"Let  me  see;  you,  of  course,  came  back  from 
Vienna  on  the  evening  of  the  day  before  yesterday,'* 
he  said. 

It  sounded  like  a  reproach,  and  Bertha  had  a  sen- 
sation of  guilt. 

"Well,  sit  down,"  he  continued ;  "and  tell  me  what 
happened  to  you  in  Vienna." 

"Nothing  at  all,"  answered  Bertha.  "I  went  to 
the  Museum,  and  I  have  seen  the  originals  of  sev- 
eral of  your  pictures." 

Herr  Rupius  made  no  reply. 

**Your  wife  is  coming  back  this  very  evening?" 

"I  believe  not" — he  was  silent  for  a  time,  and 
then  said,  with  intentional  dryness:  "I  must  ask 


224  BERTHA  GARLAN 

your  pardon  for  having  told  you  recently  things 
which  I  am  sure  could  not  possibly  have  been  of 
any  interest  to  you.  For  the  rest,  I  do  not  think 
that  my  wife  will  return  to-day." 

"But.  .  .  .  She  told  me  so  herself,  you 
know." 

**Yes,  she  told  me  also.  She  simply  wanted  to 
spare  me  the  farewell,  or  rather  the  comedy  of  fare- 
well. By  that  I  don't  mean  anything  at  all  untruth- 
ful, but  just  the  things  which  usually  accompany 
farewells:  touching  words,  tears.  .  .  .  However, 
enough  of  that.  Will  you  be  good  enough  to  come 
and  see  me  at  times?  I  shall  be  rather  lonely,  you 
know,  when  my  wife  is  no  longer  with  me." 

All  this  he  said  in  a  tone  the  sharpness  of  which 
was  so  little  in  keeping  with  the  meaning  of  his 
words  that  Bertha  sought  in  vain  for  a  reply. 

Rupius,  however,  continued  at  once: 

"Well,  and  what  else  did  you  see  besides  the 
Museum  ?" 

With  great  animation,  Bertha  began  to  tell  all 
sorts  of  things  about  her  visit  to  Vienna.  She  also 
mentioned  that  she  had  met  an  old  friend  of  her 
schooldays,  whom  she  had  not  seen  for  a  long  time. 
Strangely,  too,  the  meeting  had  taken  place  exactly 
in  front  of  the  Falckenborg  picture. 

While  she  was  speaking  of  Emil  in  this  way  with- 
out mentioning  his  name,  her  yearning  for  him  in- 
creased until  it  seemed  boundless,  and  she  thought 
of  writing  to  him  again  that  day. 


BERTHA  GARLAN  225 

Then  she  noticed  that  Herr  Rupius  was  keeping 
his  gaze  fixed  intently  on  the  door.  His  wife  had 
come  into  the  room.  She  went  up  to  him,  smil- 
ing. 

"Here  I  am,  back  again!"  she  said,  kissing  him 
on  the  forehead ;  and  then  she  held  out  her  hand  to 
Bertha. 

"Good  evening,  Frau  Rupius,"  said  Bertha,  highly 
delighted. 

Herr  Rupius  spoke  not  a  word,  but  sig^s  of  vio- 
lent agitation  could  be  seen  on  his  face.  His  wife, 
who  had  not  yet  taken  off  her  hat,  turned  away  for 
a  moment,  and  then  Bertha  noticed  how  Herr  Ru- 
pius had  rested  his  face  on  both  his  hands,  and  had 
begim  to  sob  inwardly. 

Bertha  left  them.  She  was  glad  that  Frau  Rupius 
had  returned ;  it  seemed  to  be  something  in  the  na- 
ture of  a  good  omen.  By  an  early  hour  on  the  mor- 
row she  might  receive  the  letter  which  would,  per- 
haps, decide  her  fate.  Her  sense  of  restfulness  had 
again  completely  vanished,  but  her  being  was  filled 
with  a  different  yearning  from  that  which  she  had 
experienced  before.  She  wished  only  to  have  Emil 
there,  near  her;  she  would  have  liked  only  to  see 
him,  to  walk  by  his  side. 

In  the  evening,  after  she  had  put  her  little  boy 
to  bed,  she  stopped  on  for  a  long  time  alone  in  the 
dining-room;  she  went  to  the  piano  and  played  a 
few  chords,  then  she  walked  over  to  the  window  and 
gazed  out  into  the  darkness.    The  rain  had  ceased, 


226  BERTHA  GARLAN 

the  earth  was  imbibing  the  moisture,  the  clouds  were 
still  hanging  heavily  over  the  landscape. 

Bertha's  whole  being  became  imbued  with  yearn- 
ing; everything  within  her  called  to  him;  her  eyes 
sought  to  see  him  before  her  in  the  darkness ;  her  lips 
breathed  a  kiss  into  the  air,  as  though  it  could  reach 
his  lips;  and,  unconsciously,  as  if  her  wishes  had 
to  soar  aloft,  away  from  all  else  that  surroimded 
her,  she  looked  up  to  Heaven  and  whispered: 

"Give  him  back  to  me !  .  .  ." 

Never  had  she  been  as  at  that  moment.  She  had 
an  impression  that  for  the  first  time  she  now  really 
loved  him.  Her  love  was  free  from  all  the  elements 
which  had  previously  disturbed  it ;  there  was  no  fear, 
no  care,  no  doubt.  Everything  within  her  was  the 
purest  tenderness,  and  now,  when  a  faint  breeze 
came  blowing  and  stirring  the  hair  on  her  forehead, 
she  felt  as  though  it  was  a  breath  from  the  lips  of 
Emil. 

The  next  morning  came,  but  no  letter.  Bertha 
was  a  little  disappointed,  but  not  disquieted.  Soon 
Elly,  who  had  suddenly  acquired  a  great  liking  for 
playing  with  Fritz,  made  her  appearance.  The  serv- 
ant, on  returning  from  the  market,  brought  the 
news  that  the  doctor  had  been  summoned  in  the 
greatest  haste  to  Herr  Rupius'  house,  though  she 
did  not  know  whether  it  was  Herr  Rupius  or  his 
wife  who  was  ill.  Bertha  decided  to  go  and  inquire 
herself  without  waiting  until  after  dinner. 

She  gave  the  Mahlmann  twins  their  music  lesson. 


BERTHA  GARLAN  227 

feeling  very  absent-minded  and  nervous  all  the  time, 
and  then  went  to  Herr  Rupius'  house.  The  servant 
told  her  that  her  mistress  was  ill  in  bed,  but  that  it 
was  nothing  dangerous,  although  Doctor  Friedrich 
had  strictly  forbidden  that  any  visitors  should  be 
admitted.  Bertha  was  frightened.  She  would  have 
liked  to  speak  to  Herr  Rupius,  but  did  not  wish  to 
appear  importunate. 

In  the  afternoon  she  made  an  attempt  at  contin- 
uing Fritz's  education,  but,  do  what  she  could,  she 
met  with  no  success.  Again,  she  had  the  impres- 
sion that  her  own  hopes  were  influenced  by  Anna 
having  been  taken  ill;  if  Anna  had  been  well,  it 
would  have  surely  happened  also  that  the  letter 
would  have  arrived  by  that  time.  She  knew 
that  such  an  idea  was  utter  nonsense,  but  she  could 
not  resist  it. 

Soon  after  five  o'clock  she  again  set  out  to  call 
on  Herr  Rupius.  The  maid  admitted  her,  Herr 
Rupius  himself  wanted  to  speak  to  her.  He  was 
sitting  in  his  easy-chair  by  the  table. 

"Well?"  asked  Bertha. 

"The  doctor  is  with  her  just  at  this  moment — if 
you  will  wait  a  few  minutes  .  .  ." 

Bertha  did  not  venture  to  ask  any  questions,  and 
both  remained  silent.  After  a  few  seconds.  Doctor 
Friedrich  came  out  from  the  bedroom. 

"Well,  I  cannot  say  anything  definite  yet,"  he  said 
slowly ;  then,  with  a  sudden  resolution,  he  added : 
"Excuse  me,  Frau  Garlan,  but  it  is  absolutely  neces- 


228  BERTHA  GARLAN 

sary  for  me  to  have  a  few  words  with  Herr  Rupius 
alone." 

Herr  Rupius  winced. 

"Then  I  won't  disturb  you,"  said  Bertha  mechan- 
ically, and  she  left  them. 

But  she  was  so  agitated  that  it  was  impossible  for 
her  to  go  home,  and  she  walked  along  the  pathway 
leading  between  the  vine-trellises  to  the  cemetery. 
She  felt  that  something  mysterious  was  happening 
in  that  house.  The  thought  occurred  to  her  that 
Anna  might,  perhaps,  have  made  an  attempt  to  com- 
mit suicide.  If  only  she  did  not  die.  Bertha  said 
to  herself.  And  immediately  the  thought  followed : 
if  only  a  nice  letter  were  to  come  from  Emil ! 

She  seemed  to  herself  to  be  encompassed  by  noth- 
ing but  dangers.  She  went  into  the  cemetery.  It 
was  a  beautiful,  warm  summer's  day,  and  the  flow- 
ers and  blossoms  were  fragrant  and  fresh  after  the 
rain  of  the  previous  day.  Bertha  followed  her  ac- 
customed path  towards  her  husband's  grave,  but  she 
felt  that  she  had  absolutely  no  object  in  going  there. 
It  was  almost  painful  to  her  to  read  the  words  on 
the  tombstone;  they  had  no  longer  the  least  signifi- 
cance for  her : 

"Victor  Mathias  Garlan,  died  the  6th  June,  1895." 

It  seemed  to  her,  then,  that  any  of  her  walks  with 
Emil,  which  had  happened  ten  years  before,  were 
nearer  than  the  years  she  had  spent  by  the  side  of 
her  husband.  Those  years  were  as  though  they  had 
not  even  existed  .  .  .  she  would  not  have  been  able 


BERTHA  GARLAN  229 

to  believe  in  them  if  Fritz  had  not  been  alive.  .  .  . 
Suddenly  the  idea  passed  through  her  mind  that 
Fritz  was  not  Garian's  son  at  all  .  .  .  perhaps  he 
was  really  Emil's  son.  .  .  .  Were  not  such  things 
possible,  after  all?  .  .  .  And  she  felt  at  that  mo- 
ment that  she  could  understand  the  doctrine  of  the 
Holy  Ghost.  .  .  .  Then  she  was  alarmed  at  the  mad- 
ness of  her  own  thoughts. 

She  looked  at  the  broad  roadway,  stretching 
straight  from  the  cemetery  gate  to  the  opposite  wall, 
and  all  at  once  she  knew,  for  a  positive  fact,  that  in 
a  few  days  a  coffin,  with  the  corpse  of  Frau  Rupius 
within  it,  would  be  borne  along  that  road.  She 
wanted  to  banish  the  idea,  but  the  picture  was  there 
in  full  detail;  the  hearse  was  standing  before  the 
gate ;  the  grave,  which  two  men  were  digging  yon- 
der just  at  that  moment,  was  destined  for  Frau 
Rupius ;  Herr  Rupius  was  waiting  by  the  open  grave. 
He  was  sitting  in  his  invalid  chair,  his  plaid  rug 
across  his  knees,  and  was  staring  at  the  coffin,  which 
the  black-garbed  undertakers  were  slowly  carrying 
along.  .  .  .  The  vision  was  more  than  a  mere  pre- 
sentiment; it  was  a  precognition.  .  .  .  But  whence 
had  this  idea  come  to  her? 

Then  she  heard  people  talking  behind  her.  Two 
women  walked  past  her — one  was  the  widow  of  a 
lieutenant-colonel  who  had  recently  died,  the  other 
was  her  daughter.  Both  greeted  Bertha  and  walked 
slowly  on.  Bertha  thought  that  these  two  women 
would  consider   her   a    faithful   widow   who   still 


230  BERTHA  GARLAN 

grieved  for  her  husband,  and  she  seemed  to  herself 
to  be  an  impostor,  and  she  retired  hastily. 

Possibly  there  would  be  some  news  awaiting  her 
at  home,  a  telegram  from  Emil,  perhaps — though 
that,  indeed,  would  be  nothing  extraordinary  .  .  . 
after  all,  the  two  things  were  closely  connected.  .  .  . 
She  wondered  whether  Frau  Rupius  still  thought  of 
what  Bertha  had  told  her  at  the  railway  station,  and 
whether,  perhaps,  she  would  speak  of  it  in  her  de- 
lirium .  .  .  however,  that  was  a  matter  of  indif- 
ference, indeed.  The  only  matters  of  importance 
were  that  Emil  should  write  and  that  Frau  Rupius 
should  get  better.  .  ,  .  She  would  have  to  call  again 
and  see  Herr  Rupius ;  he  would  be  sure  to  tell  her 
what  the  doctor  had  had  to  say.  .  .  .  And  Bertha 
hastened  homewards  between  the  vine-trellises  down 
the  hill.  .  .  . 

Nothing  had  arrived,  no  letter,  no  telegram.  .  .  . 
Fritz  had  gone  out  with  the  maid.  Ah,  how  lonely 
she  was.  She  hurried  to  Herr  Rupius'  house  once 
more,  and  the  maid  opened  the  door  to  her.  Things 
were  progressing  very  badly,  Herr  Rupius  was  un- 
able to  see  anyone.  .  .  . 

"But  what  is  the  matter  with  her?  Don't  you 
know  what  the  doctor  said  ?" 

"An  inflammation,  so  the  doctor  said." 

"What  kind  of  an  inflammation  ?" 

"Or  it  might  even  be  blood  poisoning,  he  said.  A 
nurse  from  the  hospital  will  be  here  immediately." 

Bertha  went  away.    On  the  square  in  front  of  the 


BERTHA  GARLAN  231 

restaurant  a  few  people  were  sitting,  and  one  table, 
right  in  front,  was  occupied  by  some  cheers,  as  was 
usual  at  that  time  of  the  day. 

They  didn't  know  what  was  going  on  up  yonder, 
thought  Bertha,  otherwise  they  wouldn't  be  sitting 
there  and  laughing.  .  .  .  Blood  poisoning — well, 
what  could  that  mean  ?  .  .  .  Obviously  Frau  Rupius  ^ 
had  attempted  to  commit  suicide!  .  .  .  But  why? 
.  .  .  Because  she  was  unable  to  go  away — or  did  not 
wish  to? — ^but  she  wouldn't  die — no,  she  must  not 
die! 

Bertha  called  on  her  relatives,  so  as  to  pass  the 
time.  Only  her  sister-in-law  was  at  home;  she  al- 
ready knew  that  Frau  Rupius  had  been  taken  ill, 
but  that  did  not  affect  her  very  much,  and  she  soon 
began  to  talk  of  other  things.  Bertha  could  not 
endure  it,  and  took  her  departure. 

In  the  evening  she  tried  to  tell  Fritz  stories,  then 
she  read  the  paper,  in  which,  amongst  other  things, 
she  found  another  announcement  of  the  concert  at 
which  Emil  was  to  play.  It  struck  her  as  very 
strange  that  the  concert  was  still  an  event  which  was 
announced  to  take  place,  and  not  one  long  since 
over. 

She  was  unable  to  go  to  bed  without  making  one 
more  inquiry  at  Herr  Rupius'  house.  She  met  the 
nurse  in  the  anteroom.  It  was  the  one  Doctor 
Friedrich  always  sent  to  his  private  patients.  She 
had  a  cheerful-looking  face,  and  a  comforting  ex- 
pression in  her  eyes. 


232  BERTHA  GARLAN 

"The  doctor  will  be  sure  to  pull  Frau  Rupius 
through,"  she  said. 

And,  although  Bertha  knew  that  the  nurse  was 
always  making  such  observations,  she  felt  more  re- 
assured. 

She  walked  home,  went  to  bed,  and  fell  quietly 
asleep. 


XI 


The  next  morning  Bertha  was  late  in  waking  up. 
She  was  fresh  after  her  good  night's  rest.  A  letter 
was  lying  beside  the  bed.  And  then,  for  the  first 
time  that  morning,  everything  came  back  to  her 
mind;  Frau  Rupius  was  very  ill,  and  here  was  a 
letter  from  Emil.  She  seized  it  so  hurriedly  that 
she  set  the  little  candlestick  shaking  violently;  she 
opened  the  envelope  and  read  the  letter. 

"My  Dear  Bertha, 

"Many  thanks  for  your  nice  letter.  I  was  very 
pleased  to  get  it.  But  I  must  tell  you  that  your 
idea  of  coming  to  live  permanently  in  Vienna  re- 
quires again  to  be  carefully  considered  by  you.  Cir- 
cumstances here  are  quite  different  from  what  you 
seem  to  imagine.  Even  the  native,  fully  accredited 
musicians  have  the  greatest  difficulty  in  obtaining 
pupils  at  anything  like  decent  fees,  and  for  you  it 
would  be — at  the  beginning,  at  least — almost  a  mat- 
ter of  impossibility.  Where  you  are  now  you  have 
your  assured  income,  your  circle  of  relations  and 
friends,  your  home ;  and,  finally,  it  is  the  place  where 
you  lived  with  your  husband,  where  your  child  was 
bom,  and  so  it  is  the  place  where  you  ought  to  be. 

"And,  apart  from  all  these  considerations,  it 
233 


234  BERTHA  GARLAN 

would  be  a  rery  foolish  procedure  on  your  part  to 
plunge  into  the  exhausting  struggle  for  a  livelihood 
in  the  city.  I  purposely  refrain  from  saying  any- 
thing about  the  part  which  your  affection  for  me 
(you  know  I  return  it  with  all  my  heart)  seems  to 
play  in  your  proposals ;  to  bring  that  in  would  carry 
the  whole  question  over  to  another  domain,  and  we 
must  not  let  that  happen.  I  will  accept  no  sacrifice 
from  you,  under  any  condition.  I  need  not  assure 
you  that  I  would  like  to  see  you  again,  and  soon,  too, 
for  there  is  nothing  I  desire  so  much  as  to  spend  an- 
other such  an  hour  with  you  as  that  which  you  re- 
cently gave  me  (and  for  which  I  am  very  grateful 
to  you). 

"So,  then,  arrange  matters,  my  child,  in  such  a 
way  that,  say,  every  four  or  six  weeks  you  can  come 
to  Vienna  for  a  day  and  a  night.  We  will  often  be 
very  happy  again,  I  trust.  I  regret  I  cannot  see  you 
during  the  next  few  days,  and,  moreover,  I  start 
off  on  a  tour  immediately  after  the  concert.  I  have 
to  play  in  London  during  the  season  there,  and  after 
that  I  am  going  on  to  Scotland.  So  I  look  forward 
to  the  joyful  prospect  of  meeting  you  again  in  the 
autumn. 

"I  greet  you  and  kiss  that  sweet  spot  behind  your 
car,  which  I  love  best  of  all. 

"Your 

"Emil." 

When  Bertha  had  read  the  letter  to  the  end,  for 


BERTHA  GARLAN  235 

some  little  time  she  sat  bolt  upright  in  the  bed.  A 
shudder  seemed  to  pass  through  her  whole  body. 
She  was  not  surprised;  she  knew  that  she  had  ex- 
pected no  other  kind  of  letter.  She  shook  her- 
self. .  .  . 

Every  four  or  six  weeks  .  .  .  excellent!  Yes, 
for  a  day  and  a  night.  ...  It  was  shameful,  shame- 
ful!..  .  And  how  afraid  he  was  that  she  might  go 
to  Vienna.  .  .  .  And  then  that  observation  right  at 
the  end,  as  if  his  object  had  been,  while  he  was  still 
at  a  safe  distance,  so  to  speak,  to  stimulate  her 
senses,  because  that,  forsooth,  was  the  only  kind  of 
relations  he  desired  to  keep  up  with  her.  ...  It  was 
shameful,  shameful!  .  .  .  What  sort  of  a  woman 
had  she  been!    She  felt  a  loathing — loathing!  .  .  . 

She  sprang  out  of  bed  and  dressed  herself.  .  .  . 
Well,  what  was  going  to  happen  after  that?  .  .  . 
It  was  over,  over,  over!  He  had  not  time  to  spare 
for  her — no  time  at  all!  .  .  .  One  night  every  six 
weeks,  after  the  autumn.  .  .  .  Yes,  my  dear  sir,  I 
at  once  accept  your  honourable  proposals  with  pleas- 
ure. Indeed,  for  myself,  I  desire  nothing  better!  I 
will  go  on  turning  sour;  I  will  go  on  giving  music 
lessons  and  growing  imbecile  in  this  hole  of  a 
town.  .  .  .  You  will  fiddle  away,  turn  women's 
heads,  travel,  be  rich,  famous  and  happy — and  every 
four  or  six  weeks  I  may  hope  to  be  taken  for  one 
night  to  some  shabby  room  where  you  entertain  your 
women  of  the  street.  ...  It  was  shameful,  shame- 
ful, shameful!  .  .  . 


2z(i  BERTHA  GARLAN 

Quick !  She  would  get  ready  to  go  to  Frau  Ru- 
pius — Anna  was  ill,  seriously  ill — what  mattered 
anything  else  ? 

Before  she  went  out,  Bertha  pressed  Fritz  to  her 
heart,  and  she  recalled  the  passage  in  Emil's  letter : 
it  is  the  place  where  your  child  was  bom.  .  .  .  In- 
deed, that  was  quite  right,  too;  but  Emil  had  not 
said  that  because  it  was  true,  but  only  to  avoid  the 
danger  of  having  to  see  her  more  than  once  in  six 
weeks. 

She  hurried  off.  .  .  .  How  was  it,  then,  that  she 
did  not  feel  any  nervousness  on  Frau  Rupius'  ac- 
count? .  .  .  Ah,  of  course,  she  had  known  that 
Frau  Rupius  had  been  better  the  previous  evening. 
But  where  was  the  letter,  though?  .  .  .  She  had 
again  thrust  it  quite  mechanically  into  her  bodice. 

Some  officers  were  sitting  in  front  of  the  restau- 
rant having  breakfast.  They  were  all  covered  with 
dust,  having  just  returned  from  the  manoeuvres. 
One  of  them  gazed  after  Bertha.  He  was  a  very 
young  man,  and  could  only  have  obtained  his  com- 
mission quite  recently.  .  .  . 

Pray,  don't  be  afraid,  thought  Bertha.    I  am  alto- 
gether at  your  disposal.    I  have  an  engagement  which 
takes  me  into  Vienna  only  once  every  four  or  six . 
weeks  .  .  .  please,  tell  me  when  you  would  like  .  .  . 

The  balcony  door  was  open,  the  red  velvet  piano 
cover  waS'  hanging  over  the  balustrade.  Well,  evi- 
dently order  had  been  restored  again — otherwise, 
would  the  cover  have  been  hanging  over  the  balus- 


BERTHA  GARLAN  237 

trade?  ...  Of  course  not,  so  forward  then,  and 
upstairs  without  fear.  .  .  . 

The  maid  opened  the  door.  There  was  no  need 
for  Bertha  to  ask  her  any  questions;  in  her  wide- 
open  eyes  there  was  an  expression  of  terrified  amaze- 
ment, such  as  is  only  called  forth  by  the  proximity 
of  an  appalling  death. 

Bertha  went  in.  She  entered  the  drawing-room 
first;  the  door  leading  to  the  bedroom  was  open  to 
its  full  extent.  The  bed  was  standing  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  away  from  the  wall,  and  free  on  all 
sides.  At  the  foot  was  sitting  the  nurse,  looking 
very  tired,  with  her  head  sunk  upon  her  breast. 
Herr  Rupius  was  sitting  in  his  invalid's  chair  by  the 
head  of  the  bed.  The  room  was  so  dark  that  it  was 
not  until  Bertha  had  come  quite  close  that  she  could 
see  Anna's  face  clearly.  Frau  Rupius  seemed  to  be 
asleep.  Bertha  came  nearer.  She  could  hear  the 
patient's  breathing;  it  was  regular,  but  inconceiv- 
ably rapid — she  had  never  heard  a  human  being 
breathe  like  that  before.  Then  Bertha  felt  that  the 
eyes  of  the  two  others  were  fixed  upon  her.  Her 
surprise  at  having  been  admitted  in  this  uncere- 
monious manner  lasted  only  for  a  moment,  since  she 
understood  that  all  precautionary  measures  had 
now  become  superfluous;  the  matter  had  been  de- 
cided. 

Suddenly  another  pair  of  eyes  turned  towards 
Bertha.  Frau  Rupius  opened  her  eyes,  and  was 
watching  her  friend  attentively.     The  nurse  made 


238  BERTHA  GARLAN 

room  for  Bertha,  and  went  into  the  adjoining  room. 
Bertha  sat  down,  moving  her  chair  closer  to  the  bed. 
She  noticed  that  Anna  was  slowly  stretching  out  her 
hand  towards  her.    She  grasped  it. 

"Dear  Frau  Rupius,"  she  said,  "you  are  already 
getting  on  much  better  now,  are  you  not?" 

She  felt  that  she  was  again  saying  something  awk- 
ward, but  she  knew  she  could  not  help  doing  so.  It 
was  just  her  fate  to  say  such  things  in  the  presence 
of  Frau  Rupius,  even  in  her  last  hour. 

Anna  smiled;  she  looked  as  pale  and  young  as  a 
girl. 

"Thank  you,  dear  Bertha,"  she  said. 

"But  whatever  for,  my  dear,  dear  Anna  ?" 

She  had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  restraining  her 
tears.  At  the  same  time,  however,  she  was  very 
curious  to  hear  what  had  actually  happened. 

A  long  interval  of  silence  ensued.  Anna  closed 
her  eyes  again  and  appeared  to  sleep.  Herr  Rupius 
sat  motionless  in  his  chair.  Bertha  looked  sometimes 
at  Anna  and  sometimes  at  him. 

In  any  case,  she  must  wait,  she  thought.  She 
wondered  what  Emil  would  say  if  she  were  suddenly 
to  die.  Ah,  surely  it  would  cause  him  some  slight 
grief  if  he  had  to  think  that  she  whom  he  had  held 
in  his  arms  a  few  days  before  now  lay  mouldering 
in  the  grave.  He  might  even  weep.  Yes,  he  would 
weep  if  she  were  to  die  .  .  .  wretched  egoist  though 
he  was  at  other  times.  .  .  . 

Ah,  but  where  were  her  thoughts  flyiag  to  again  ? 


BERTHA  GARLAN  239 

Wasn't  she  still  holding  her  friend's  hand  in  her 
own?  Oh,  if  she  could  only  save  her!  .  .  .  Who 
was  now  in  the  worse  plight — ^this  woman  who  was 
doomed  to  die,  or  Bertha  herself — who  had  been  so 
ignominiously  deceived  ?  Was  it  necessary,  though, 
to  put  it  so  strongly  as  that,  because  of  one 
night?  .  .  .  Ah,  but  that  had  much  too  fine  a 
sound !  .  .  .  for  the  sake  of  one  hour — ^to  humiliate 
her  so — to  ruin  her  so — was  not  that  unscrupulous 
and  shameless?  .  .  .  How  she  hated  him!  How 
she  hated  him!  ...  If  only  he  were  to  break  down 
at  the  next  concert,  so  that  all  the  people  would 
laugh  him  to  scorn,  and  he  would  be  put  to  shame, 
and  all  the  papers  would  have  the  news — "The  ca- 
reer of  Herr  Emil  Lindbach  is  absolutely  ended." 
And  all  his  women  would  say :  "Ah,  I  don't  like  that 
a  bit,  a  fiddler  who  breaks  down !"  .  .  . 

Yes,  then  he  would  probably  remember  her,  the 
only  woman  who  had  loved  him  since  the  days  of 
her  girlhood,  who  loved  him  truly  .  .  .  and  whom 
he  was  now  treating  so  basely !  .  .  .  Then  he  would 
be  sure  to  come  back  to  her  and  beg  her  to  forgive 
him — and  she  would  say  to  him :  "Do  you  see,  Emil ; 
do  you  see,  Emil?"  .  .  .  for,  naturally,  anything 
more  intelligent  than  that  would  not  occur  to 
her.  .  .  . 

And  there  she  was  thinking  again  of  him,  al- 
ways of  him — and  here  somebody  was  dying,  and 
she  was  sitting  by  the  bed,  and  that  silent  person 
there  was  the  husband.  ...  It  was  all  so  quiet; 


240  BERTHA  GARLAN 

only  from  the  street,  as  though  wafted  up  over  the 
balcony  and  through  the  open  door,  came  a  confused 
murmur — men's  voices,  the  rumble  of  the  traffic,  the 
jingle  of  a  cyclist's  bell,  the  clattering  of  a  sabre  on 
the  pavement,  and,  now  and  then,  the  twitter  of  the 
birds — ^but  it  all  seemed  so  far  away,  so  utterly  un- 
connected with  actuality. 

Anna  became  restless  and  tossed  her  head  to  and 
fro — several  times,  quickly,  quicker  and  quicker.  .  .  . 

"Now  it's  beginning!"  said  a  soft  Toice  behind 
Bertha. 

She  turned  round.  It  was  the  nurse  with  the 
cheerful  features;  but  Bertha  now  perceived  that 
that  expression  did  not  denote  cheerfulness  at  all, 
but  was  only  the  result  of  a  strained  effort  never  to 
allow  sorrow  to  be  noticeable,  and  she  considered  the 
face  to  be  indescribably  fearful.  .  .  .  What  was  it 
the  nurse  had  said?  .  .  .  "Now  it's  beginning."  .  .  . 
Yes,  like  a  concert  or  a  play  .  .  .  and  Bertha  re- 
membered that  once  the  same  words  had  been  spoken 
beside  her  own  bed,  at  the  time  when  she  began  to 
feel  the  pangs  of  childbirth.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  Anna  opened  her  eyes,  opened  them  very 
wide,  so  that  they  appeared  immense ;  she  fixed  them 
on  her  husband,  and,  vainly  striving,  meanwhile,  to 
raise  herself  up,  said  in  a  quite  clear  voice : 

"It  was  only  you,  only  you  .  .  .  believe  me,  it 
was  only  you  whom  I  have  .  .  ." 

The  last  word  was  unintelligible,  kit  Bertha 
guessed  it 


'^     '  BERTHA  GARLAN  241 

Then  Herr  Rupius  bent  down,  and  kissed  the 
dying  woman  on  the  forehead.  Anna  threw 
her  arms  around  him ;  his  lips  lingered  long  on  her 
eyes. 

The  nurse  had  gone  out  of  the  room  ag^in.  Sud- 
denly Anna  pushed  her  husband  away  from  her ;  she 
no  longer  recognized  him ;  delirium  had  set  in. 

Bertha  rose  to  her  feet  in  great  alarm,  but  she 
remained  standing  by  the  bed. 

"Go  now !"  said  Herr  Rupius  to  her. 

She  lingered. 

"Go !"  he  repeated,  this  time  in  a  stem  voice. 

Bertha  realized  that  she  must  go.  She  left  the 
room  quietly  on  tip-toes,  as  though  Anna  might  still 
be  disturbed  by  the  sound  of  footsteps.  Just  as  she 
entered  the  adjoining  room  she  saw  Doctor  Fried- 
rich,  who  was  taking  off  his  overcoat  and,  at  the 
same  time,  was  talking  to  a  young  doctor,  the  as- 
sistant at  the  hospital. 

He  did  not  notice  Bertha,  and  she  heard  him 
say: 

"In  any  other  case  I  would  have  notified  the  au- 
thorities, but,  as  this  affair  falls  out  as  it  does.  .  .  . 
Besides,  there  would  be  a  terrible  scandal,  and  poor 

Rupius  would  be  the  worst  sufferer "  then  he 

saw  Bertha — "Good  day,  Frau  Garlan." 

"Oh,  doctor,  what  is  really  the  matter,  then  ?" 

Doctor  Friedrich  threw  his  colleague  a  rapid 
glance. 

"Blood  poisoning,"  he  replied.     "You  arc,  of 


242  BERTHA  GARLAN 

course,  aware,  my  dear  Frau  Garlan,  that  people 
often  cut  their  fingers  and  die  as  a  resuh ;  the  wound 
cannot  always  be  located.  It  is  a  great  misfor- 
tune. .  .  .  Yes,  indeed!" 

He  went  into  the  room,  followed  by  the  assistant. 

Bertha  went  into  the  street  like  one  stupified. 
What  could  be  the  meaning  of  the  words  which  she 
had  overheard — "information?" — "scandal?"  Yes, 
had  Herr  Rupius,  perhaps,  murdered  his  own 
wife?  .  .  .  No,  what  nonsense!  But  some  injury 
had  been  done  to  her,  it  was  quite  obvious  .  .  .  and 
it  must  have  been,  in  some  way,  connected  with  the 
visit  to  Vienna;  for  she  had  been  taken  ill  during 
the  night  subsequent  to  her  journey.  .  .  .  And  the 
words  of  the  dying  woman  recurred  to  Bertha:  "It 
was  only  you,  only  you  whom  I  have  loved!  .  .  ." 
Had  they  not  sounded  like  a  prayer  for  forgiveness  ? 
"Loved  only  you" — ^but  .  .  .  another  ...  of 
course,  she  had  a  lover  in  Vienna.  .  .  .  Well,  yes, 
but  what  followed?  .  .  .  Yes,  she  had  wished  to 
go  away,  and  had  not  done  so  after  all.  .  .  .  What 
could  it  have  been  that  she  said  on  that  occasion  at 
the  railway  station  ?  .  .  .  "I  have  made  up  my  mind 
to  do  something  else."  .  .  .  Yes,  of  course,  she  had 
taken  leave  of  her  lover  in  Vienna,  and,  on  her  re- 
turn— ^had  poisoned  herself?  .  .  .  But  why  should 
she  do  that,  though,  if  she  loved  only  her  hus- 
band? .  .  .  And  that  was  not  a  lie,  certainly  not! 

Bertha  could  not  understand.  .  .  . 

Why  ever  had  she  gone  away,  then?  .  .  .  What 


BERTHA  GARLAN  243 

should  she  do  now,  too?  .  .  .  She  could  not  rest. 
She  could  neither  go  home  nor  to  her  relatives,  she 
must  go  back  again.  .  .  .  She  wondered,  too, 
whether  Anna  would  have  to  die  if  another  letter 
from  Emil  came  that  day?  ...  In  truth,  she  was 
losing  her  reason.  ...  Of  course,  these  two  things 
had  not  the  least  connection  between  them  .  .  .  and 
yet  .  .  .  why  was  she  unable  to  dissociate  them  one 
from  the  other?  .  .  . 

Once  more  she  hurried  up  the  steps.  Not  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour  had  elapsed  since  she  had  left  the 
house.  The  hall  door  was  open,  the  nurse  was  in 
the  anteroom. 

"It  is  all  over,"  she  said. 

Bertha  went  on.  Herr  Rupius  was  sitting  by  the 
table,  all  alone ;  the  door  leading  to  the  death-cham- 
ber was  closed.  He  made  Bertha  come  quite  close 
to  him,  then  he  seized  the  hand  which  she  stretched 
out  to  him. 

"Why,  why  did  she  do  it?"  he  said.  "Why  did 
she  do  thatr 

Bertha  was  silent. 

"It  wasn't  necessary,"  continued  Herr  Rupius, 
"Heaven  knows,  it  wasn't  necessary.  What  differ- 
ence could  the  other  men  make  to  me — tell  me 
that?" 

Bertha  nodded. 

"The  main  point  is  to  live — ^yes,  that  is  it !  Why 
did  she  do  that?" 

It  sounded  like  a  suppressed  wail,  although  he 


244  BERTHA  GARLAN 

seemed  to  be  speaking  very  quietly.  Bertha  burst 
into  tears. 

"No,  it  wasn't  necessary !  I  would  have  brought 
it  up — brought  it  up  as  my  own  child !" 

Bertha  looked  up  sharply.  All  at  once  she  under- 
stood everything,  and  a  terrible  fear  ran  through  her 
whole  being.  She  thought  of  herself.  If  in  that 
night  she  also  ...  in  that  one  hour  ?  ...  So  great 
was  her  terror  that  she  believed  that  she  must  be 
losing  her  reason.  What  had  hitherto  been  scarcely 
more  than  a  vague  possibility  floating  through  her 
mind  now  loomed  suddenly  before  her,  an  indis- 
putable certainty.  It  could  not  possibly  be  other- 
wise, the  death  of  Anna  was  an  omen,  the  pointing 
of  the  finger  of  God. 

At  the  same  time  there  arose  within  her  mind  the 
recollection  of  the  day,  twelve  years  ago,  when  she 
had  been  walking  with  Emil  on  the  bank  of  the 
Wien,  and  he  had  kissed  her  and  for  the  first  time 
she  had  felt  an  ardent  yearning  for  a  child.  How 
was  it  that  she  had  not  experienced  the  same  yearn- 
ing when,  recently,  she  felt  his  arms  about  her  ?  .  .  . 
Yes,  she  knew  now;  she  had  desired  nothing  more 
than  the  pleasures  of  the  moment ;  she  had  been  no 
better  than  a  woman  of  the  streets.  It  would  be 
only  the  just  punishment  of  Heaven  if  she  also  per- 
ished in  her  shame,  like  the  poor  woman  lying  in 
the  next  room. 

"I  would  like  to  see  her  once  more,"  she  said. 

Rupius  pointed  towards  the  door.    Bertha  opened 


BERTHA  GARLAN  245 

it,  went  up  slowly  to  the  bed  on  which  lay  the  body 
of  the  dead  woman,  gazed  upon  her  friend  for  a  long 
time,  and  kissed  her  on  both  eyes.  Then  a  sense 
of  imequalled  restfulness  stole  over  her.  She  would 
have  liked  to  have  remained  beside  the  corpse  for 
hours  together,  for,  in  proximity  to  it,  her  own  sor- 
row and  disappointment  became  as  nothing  to  her. 
She  knelt  down  by  the  bed  and  clasped  her  hands, 
but  she  did  not  pray. 

All  at  once  everything  danced  before  her  eyes. 
Suddenly  a  well-known  attack  of  weakness  came 
over  her,  a  dizziness  which  passed  off  immediately. 
At  first  she  trembled  slightly,  but  then  she  drew  a 
deep  breath,  as  one  who  has  been  rescued,  because, 
indeed,  with  the  approach  of  that  lassitude,  she  felt 
at  the  same  time  that,  at  that  moment,  not  only  her 
previous  apprehensions,  but  all  the  illusion  of  that 
confused  day,  the  last  tremors  of  the  desires  of 
womanhood,  everything  which  she  had  considered 
to  be  love,  had  begun  to  merge  and  to  fade  away  into 
nothingness.  And  kneeling  by  the  death-bed,  she 
realized  that  she  was  not  one  of  those  women  who 
ere  gifted  with  a  cheerful  temperament  and  can 
quaff  the  joys  of  life  without  trepidation.  She 
thought  with  disgust  of  that  hour  of  pleasure  that 
had  been  granted  her,  and,  in  comparison  with  the 
purity  of  that  yearning  kiss,  the  recollection  of 
which  had  beautified  her  whole  existence,  the  shame- 
less joys  which  she  then  had  tasted  seemed  to  her 
like  an  immense  falsehood. 


246  BERTHA  GARLAN 

The  relations  which  had  existed  between  the  para- 
lysed man  in  the  room  beyond  and  this  woman,  who 
had  had  to  die  for  her  deceit,  seemed  now  to  be 
spread  out  before  her  with  wonderful  clearness. 
And,  while  she  gazed  upon  the  pallid  brow  of  the 
dead  woman  she  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  un- 
known man,  on  account  of  whom  Anna  had  had  to 
die,  and  who,  exempt  from  punishment,  and,  per- 
haps, remorseless,  too,  dared  to  go  about  in  a  great 
town  and  to  live  on,  like  any  other — no,  like  thou- 
sands and  thousands  of  others  who  had  stared  at 
her  with  covetous,  indecent  glances.  Bertha  divined 
what  an  enormous  wrong  had  been  wrought  against 
the  world  in  that  the  longing  for  pleasure  is  placed  in 
woman  just  as  in  man;  and  that  with  women  that 
longing  is  a  sin,  demanding  expiation,  if  the  yearn- 
ing for  pleasure  is  not  at  the  same  time  a  yearning 
for  motherhood. 

She  rose,  threw  a  last  farewell  glance  at  her 
dearly  loved  friend,  and  left  the  death-chamber. 

Herr  Rupius  was  sitting  in  the  adjoining  room, 
exactly  as  she  had  left  him.  She  was  seized  with  a 
profound  desire  to  speak  some  words  of  consolation 
to  him.  For  a  moment  it  seemed  to  her  as  though 
her  own  destiny  had  only  had  this  one  purpose:  to 
enable  her  fully  to  understand  the  misery  of  that 
man.  She  would  have  liked  to  have  been  able  to 
tell  him  so,  but  she  felt  that  he  was  one  of  those  who 
desire  to  be  alone  with  their  sorrow.  And  so,  with- 
out speaking,  she  sat  down  opposite  to  him. 

J^'L{yy0i\^\  END 


i 


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COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

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